Atonement
by Plonkers
Summary: After the war Hermione Granger and Bellatrix Lestrange must both deal with the consequences of what has happened and try to make the best of it. When Hermione is tasked with untangling the magic behind Voldemort and Bellatrix is faced with a life wasted everything they know to be true begins to shift.
1. Part 1: Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Mr. H. Potter and the universe in which he resides belongs not to me, but to it's author J.K Rowling. **

**A/N: Some notes before we begin:  
Canon-compliant (with the novels) until the Battle of Hogwarts, at which point there are some slight deviations. Those consist of keeping some people alive for the purposes of this story. The epilogue is irrelevant.  
Rating is subject to change.  
As for warnings, I will try to warn as things come up.**

**Chapter 1 **

_May 3 1998_

'I think I've had enough adventure for a lifetime'  
\- Harry Potter, 'Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows'

Hermione and Ron put their arms around Harry and hugged him tight. 'Right you are, mate' said Ron. He grinned at Hermione, who smiled back and hugged her friends tighter.

On their way down the stairs, Hermione choked out the realization she'd been holding off since seeing the dead laid out in the Great Hall.  
'I'm not sure normal exists for us anymore.'  
She stopped mid-step, lost in thought at her own pronouncement, before continuing, much more businesslike.  
'In any case I'm not sure we ought to go back to how things were. I mean... Fudge was terrible, wasn't he? And Scrimgeour was terrible, and well... It's not like the Ministry has a great record of running things, is it? I mean, I can't think of anyone who trusts them.'  
Ron smiled, interrupting her tirade before she'd had a chance to start it.  
'I'm sure it will be fine seeing as you've likely planned for every possibility already.' He squeezed her hand reassuringly, and Hermione realized to her surprise and relief that she was mollified by the simple gesture. She was too tired for all of this.  
Ron's expression was milder, more gentle, than before and she liked this new Ron, she decided, even though she could see the grimace in his smile and the tired circles around his eyes. He was tired and in mourning. Everyone's in mourning, Hermione corrected herself quietly.

Hermione and Ron locked hands and they all headed down toward the Great Hall.

On their way past they could hear the angry mutterings and anguished wailing and weeping of some of the Death Eaters that were chained up in a room off the corridor. A sniffling voice choked out 'My Lord... oh, my Lord' in a clearly heartbroken tone.  
Hermione peered into the room, catching a glimpse of Bellatrix Lestrange. While Bellatrix had been injured badly enough by Molly Weasley to be incapacitated for the battle she had indeed survived, and had since been chained to the wall within sight of the broken body of her master. She had wept from the moment she woke, and as the morning had progressed the wails of anguish had stirred annoyance enough to unite all sides of the war in bristling dislike. Bellatrix had remained resolutely unfazed about this as she seemed positively possessed by her grief.  
'HE'S GONE! GONE! GONE FROM ME! I cannot STAND IT!' she shrieked suddenly and Hermione gave a start as she watched the woman rattling her chains loudly. 'MY LORD! Oh, my Lord...' she threw herself against the chains, seemingly attempting to hurl herself at her Masters body. She only managed to produce a horrific choking sound, and a final anguished 'He was so beautiful.' before collapsing against the floor defeated and crying silently. Ron looked stunned, whilst Harry rolled his eyes and mumbled 'That's healthy...' to the general amusement of everyone within earshot, and the trio pressed on into the Hall.

Healers had been sent from St. Mungos immediately after the Battle and they were busily examining people. 'Everyone has to be examined!' they were informed by a harassed-looking Medi-wizard who pointed them in the direction of their assigned Healer, who had set up behind a privacy screen on the opposite end of the Hall. The room was buzzing with activity, so unlike the place of mourning it had been just a short while before, or the scene of jubilation it had been when they had left it last.

Ginny caught up with them as they were crossing the room. She looked to have aged about ten years since Hermione had last seen her. Her hair was limp and her usually upright posture bent tiredly forward. Her red-rimmed eyes smiled at them from a distant place, so unlike their usual fiery presence.  
'Neville and the other DA members have been taken to the hospital wing by Madam Pomfrey but I stayed behind. She's refusing to let anyone else treat them unless they're Senior Healers! She's got rather protective of them this year, hasn't she?'  
'She must've, yeah.' Harry mumbled distractedly, his head bent to look on the ground immediately in front of him. Ginny pressed on in a toneless, but insistent voice.  
'Lavender Brown's been taken to St. Mungo's. Part of a group. There were five of them altogether, a couple of them second-years who got back here somehow. Attacked by Greyback the lot of them. They looked half-dead, blood everywhere. Lavender got the worst of it, though, I saw her. There were these huge gashes along her stomach and on her back, you could see right in to her organs just about. And she was bitten, too.. You could see the inside of her shoulder, all of it. Tendons and flesh and veins and bones and...'  
Ron looked green.  
'Any good news?' Hermione interrupted, trying to get them away from the topic of Lavender. They'd lived in the same dorm for six years, and had gotten on reasonably well apart from that fiasco last year. Hermione felt dizzy with sadness thinking that Lavender might die. She'd always been so... animatedly and decidedly alive.  
'Tonks and Lupin woke up! Same thing as Bellatrix, apparently. They just... seemed dead but weren't? I didn't quite catch what happened, but either way they've come 're at St. Mungo's now.'  
'Lupin is dead. I met him in the Forest and he was dead.' Harry said with a surprising finality. Before anyone had time to question how Harry had met a dead person, Ginny gently corrected him.  
'Was dead, then.' she patted his shoulder. 'Somehow alive now.'  
'There's a lot of that going around.' Ron responded, smiling cautiously at Harry. Harry just looked tired.

They walked on and found their assigned Healer. Harry was examined first, then it was Ron and finally it was Hermione's turn.

Healer Selwyn was a stout woman likely in her mid-fifties, with a kind expression. She reached out her hand for Hermione to shake as she introduced herself and it was warm and comforting.

The Healer poked and prodded and moved her wand in complicated patterns around Hermione while muttering a string of complicated incantations. Warm energy surged through her body, she felt, as her skin knit itself together again, fractures healed with a jolt like lightning and an electric charge moved itself throughout her body, lingering in painful places until they felt pleasantly tingling. Hermione decided it was all very impressive, but exhausting.

'There you are, miss Granger.' Healer Selwyn told her as the energy she'd been feeling left Hermione's body. 'You've had a few injuries, of course, but nothing too bad. You do have some standard spell damage to your magic, as is to be expected. You've been doing some heavy spellwork.' Hermione nodded as Healer Selwyn gazed at her. 'And some Dark magic as well?' Hermione nodded again, staring at a spot on the floor. 'I would also say you've had some significant exposure to Dark magic and Dark Objects?'

'Yes.'

'Well, you'll need to see a Healer at St. Mungo's, though it is not urgent. You'll need some soul healing for the damage to your magic, it is a bit destabilized. We will owl you when we have an appointment for you, and I would advise that you avoid any heavy spellwork until then. Any questions?'

Hermione shook her head.

'Now, there's one other thing, miss Granger. I can't help but notice you have some Crucio-related damage.'  
'It's been treated...' she started, surprised.  
'Not as it should have been, though unless you actually came in to the hospital I'm not sure anyone could have done it properly. That must have been a fairly extensive bit of cursing, am I correct?'  
Hermione looked away from the kind face of the Healer, nodding once as she fought back tears.  
'Longer exposure do tend to leave permanent marks. You've got scars?'

Hermione nodded again.

'Well, whoever treated you did a fine job for a civilian, but I'm afraid some permanent damage has been done. But it is minimal, hardly anything to worry about. If you experience bouts of uncontrollable trembling, like your nerves are twitching, that is what that is. Nothing to be done about it now, I'm afraid, but I thought you should know in any case. It's always best to be informed.' She peered at Hermione with empathy, and smiled.

Hermione flushed, inexplicably, with embarrassment. Quickly shaking her head and excusing herself she rushed out of the Hall past her waiting friends and approached the Death Eater holding room where an ongoing disturbance caught her attention and she halted.

The captured Death Eaters were being examined while Senior Healer Shafiq was explaining everything to Minister Shacklebolt, neither of them seemingly bothered by the new onlooker hearing everything.

Most of the Death Eaters had been transported directly to a secure ward guarded by the senior Aurors brought out of retirement to guard them. When the Minister prodded about the screening of Healers who could be trusted not to harm the prisoners, Healer Shafiq responded 'The Healer's Oath says to First Do No Harm, Minister. It is such a cornerstone of our profession I hear even the Muggles have adopted it.' with such indignation that Hermione felt as if she was listening to Professor McGonagall explain something to someone very dim-witted and rude.  
As they kept talking, Hermione learned that a surprising number of the Death Eaters' injuries were caused by their Master, and most of them had long-term damage from torture. She shuddered at that, still reeling from the news that she, too, was stuck with her damage.

Several Azkaban breakouts had already been put in an intensive Soul Healing programme, Shafiq went on, but Hermione's attention shifted to the commotion that was still going on inside the room where the last person left to be examined, Bellatrix Lestrange, was putting up quite a fight.  
'GET OFF ME YOU DIRTY SQUIBS! DO NOT TOUCH ME, YOU BYPRODUCTS OF DUNG!' Bellatrix screamed expletives while viciously spitting, kicking and clawing at anything she could reach whilst the Healers around her desperately tried to hold onto whatever limb they were attempting to examine. Finally a Healer managed to send a well-aimed Petrificus Totalus at her and they administered a calming draft. Once subdued, the damage found was extensive. The combined toll of all her injuries, spell damage, her soul damage from Azkaban... only her very powerful magic was keeping her alive Senior Healer Shafiq informed the Minister as the Death Eater was rushed to St. Mungos where she evidently promptly tried to strangle herself with her hair in an attempt to reunite with her Lord in death. Hermione almost smiled at how truly ridiculous the last powerful Death Eater standing was.

On her way back to the Great Hall she found the Minister following her.

'Might I have a word, miss Granger? And mister Potter and mister Weasley, you as well.' he gestured for the boys who had been sidling up toward them and they followed after him. He lead them to an empty classroom where he begun to explain his intentions almost immediately upon shutting the door behind him.  
'I have called a state of emergency. The country is in utter chaos, and there is a lot of confusion in the community regarding certain events and who is behind them. The work of clearing up what has happened begins now. Immediately.'  
A deep breath followed.  
'The war is over, and it is time for full, unqualified disclosure. This is not a request, but an order. You will be depositioned. In exchange we will also forgive the... legally delicate situations you all have been in as of late. Unforgivables, robberies, illegal impersonation, fraud, Apparating without a license and the like, all forgiven. Slate wiped clean.' he gave them a broad smile. 'Of course, it isn't much, but this is a fresh start and we have decided to give everyone a chance this once. Our stipulation is simple: no more secrets. Alright?'

The constipated look Harry gave Hermione at that might have been comical in any other situation. The Minister explained that the depositions would start tomorrow, but they will be interviewed today for the Prophet in order to set the record straight immediately before any rumours can start.

So, as the sun set on their day of victory Hermione Granger did not celebrate the final, decisive victory she had worked for so long. Instead she was interviewed by none other than Rita Skeeter.  
'Bloody unbelievable.' she muttered under her breath more than once between strained smiles to the woman she once kidnapped and blackmailed. _At least she won't dare to slander us_, she smiled to herself.

* * *

Reviews are much appreciated!


	2. Part 1: Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Mr. H. Potter and the universe in which he resides belongs not to me, but to it's author J.K Rowling. **

**Chapter 2**

_May 4 1998_

_Well, this is exciting_, thought Hermione, as she thumbed through her borrowed copy of that morning's Prophet, skipping the ten-page interview section with herself, Ron and Harry.  
The more interesting news was that finally, in the year 2004, democracy would come to Wizarding Britain for good. Moreover, it seemed the only part of the Ministry set to remain relatively unchanged by the war was the Department of Mysteries.

The Minister has laid out his basic plan in the paper, and merely glancing at it was enough to confirm to anyone that the one unforeseen eventuality of victory was the idealism and will for change brought into being by Kingsley Shacklebolt. The plan was ambitious and rather grandly idealistic, but perfectly doable if everyone worked together.

The Commission for Reconstruction would map the war damage and rebuild or reform things where needed, or decommission and relinquish lands back to the Muggles where appropriate. The Commission for the Creation and Expansion of Safe Spaces would seek out new ground to set up all-wizarding communities, a necessity to appease those who agreed with basic Death Eater sentiment but not method (a sizeable portion of the populace, especially now that the other side had been... pruned) along with the more staunch isolationist factions that resided on all sides of the conflict depending on their views on how to best achieve magical isolation. New and larger habitats for magical creatures would also be opened, creating both employment and ample opportunity for Britain to become a world leader in a number of research fields as the flora and fauna available would multiply.

The Minister himself would find and hire people, and the commissions would be the practical foundation for a completely changed Ministry of Magic, complete with a new Constitution anchored by more than just the Statute of Secrecy.  
Professor Minerva McGonagall would be in charge of a separate commission to overhaul the education system, and it was noted by her in the Prophet already that this new system would include at least some primary education, and that the Hogwarts curriculum would include some fields of interest to both wizards and muggles, so as to make it easier for people to integrate into the muggle world if they wish upon completion of their education. Hogwarts would open again, but sadly not for quite some time. The magic around the castle and grounds would need a thorough reworking.

_'We have fought long for reforms and revisions, and we have tried to salvage a corrupt system again and again. The war has broken that system beyond repair. The time for radical change has come upon us. Let us put the past behind us and focus on building a better future together. I hope and believe that a time of lasting peace has now come, and that we will all work together to make it so.' announced Minister Shacklebolt to reporters today at the Ministry of Magic offices in London._

The Commissions would spend a year laying the framework, after which there would be an establishing period for the new Ministry of five years and then the first ever Wizarding Elections would be held, putting in place a new elected portion of the Wizengamot, instating a new Minister for Magic and new Heads of Department.

_Regarding the Death Eaters and sympathisers both in and out of custody, it has been ultimately decided by the Minister and his advisors that everyone with ties to Voldemort will be put under house arrest for the time being, with severe restrictions set for their magic. All medical care will of course be provided for.  
'The light and the dark both seem distinctly grey under the full light of day, and everyone will be given a second chance in this new society. There will be trials, of course, but they will take quite some time to arrange. Passing judgment will be a low priority for this administration until the safety and comfort of the wizarding world had been secured. The public will be the first priority for me, always.' said Minister Shacklebolt before bidding us adieu to return to his work. _

_May 5 1998_

After an exhausting and unpleasant day of memory extraction the day before, Hermione had a bit of a lie-in. Then, after a quick breakfast she packed up her tent (Gryffindor tower barely stood as it was, and provided absolutely no privacy) and apparated to Diagon Alley. Leaving through the Leaky Cauldron she caught a bus north. Her heart hammered loudly in her ears all the way to the anonymous-looking suburban neighbourhood where she finally stepped off the bus, walked down the street and turned left. Oak Drive, the sign said, barely hanging on to the edge of the precipice on which it stood. There was nothing there. Nothing at all.

The whole street resembled some sort of construction project gone horribly wrong. Hermione gaped at the elongated hole in the ground, stunned by the sheer amount of debris left by what was once her home, now roped off.  
'Tragic, isn't it? Gas-leak about 2 months ago. Caused a massive explosion and fire. Killed 17 people, it did.' volunteered a man watering the lawn nearest the corner. Hermione vaguely recognized him, although he, and everything else she looked at, seemed to be floating in a haze on the other end of a long tunnel right then. She felt a prickling sound rushing in her ears. 'There's a whole government investigation going on about it, too. Insurance claims haven't even been confirmed, last I heard. Clearly a gas-leak, but they can't find it anywhere, see? Insult to injury, if you ask me. These people... Good thing you moved when you did, eh?' the man was absentmindedly trimming the hedges opposite the disaster site, peering at her curiously.

Hermione swayed, suddenly dizzy. 17 people? Had the Order forgotten about keeping an eye out for her old home? That could have been her parents. Those were her neighbours. She turned and ran, hardly managing to breathe for the excruciating pain blooming in her chest.

She apparated from a secluded spot near a park onto the steps of Number 12, Grimmauld Place. Harry had mentioned that morning that he had decided to return there to survey the damage. She clambered through the stupid hall with the troll foot umbrella stand and the moth-eaten curtains of the portrait of mrs. Black while holding her breath. Her hands shake as she opens the door to the kitchen.

'Harry?' She calls with a shaky voice.  
'Hermione! I'm through here.'  
'Oh, alright.'  
How to tell him?

'I... I've got something I need to talk to you about, Harry. Are you alright?' she added upon seeing the tired young man seated near the lit fire, his gaunt face the picture of grief. He looked so much younger and so much older at the same time somehow, now that his face was clean-shaven again. He hadn't cut his hair, but it was pulled back in a ponytail, accentuating the tired lines in his face.

'The house is... such a mess. Kreacher is gathering up whatever he can, but the place is just... it's going to take a lot to clean up. The Death Eaters tore it apart. And I've been to Gringotts, where they're not too pleased to see me out and about. You remember Travers? The bloke we Imperiused?'he inquired. She nodded.  
'Well, that dragon breakout killed him. And 12 goblins as well. 14 people are in hospital.' he fixed her with a pained expression, 'Hermione, I don't know what to do. I've killed them.'  
'Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry!' she sat down in a chair next to him, reaching for his hand.  
'We had no choice. What could we do? This is how war goes. There are casualties. They're not... it isn't our fault, they're just... casualties of war.'  
'How can you be so calm about it? We've killed them!'  
'Well, Harry. I just came from my parents house and... Death Eaters blew up my whole street. 17 of my neighbours are dead. I... I am not sure what to be anymore if I can't just be calm about it.'  
'Hermione!' The shock and horror on his face says it all.

They sat in silence for a while, staring into the dark wooden table. Everything feels far away, and Hermione suspects, somehow, that only the truth can ground her now, keep her from simply floating away to somewhere even more terrible than the here and now. The truth will anchor her and keep the world form disintegrating entirely. She needs to stay here, stay grounded, stay anchored to the people she loves.

'You know, I don't even miss them that much. I counted it all up and... well, I've spent less than a year with them since I was eleven. Total.'

Harry looked at her, and she crumpled. 'I'm a terrible daughter! I've ruined their life and gotten their neighbours killed! I haven't spent any time with them and I've altered their minds using magic way beyond my skill level, really, and Harry I don't know what to do!'

She sobbed in his arms then, and before long she felt something distinctly tear-like in her hair.

_May 6 1998_

_WAR DEATH TOLL RISES AS MORE GRAVES ARE UNCOVERED_

_by Edward Mulligan_

_Ministry officials have so far confirmed the death of more than 400 Muggles, 70 Goblins, and an as-of-yet-undetermined number of witches and wizards. The current count exceeds 700 and is expected to rise as more graves are uncovered across the country and checked against missing persons-lists which Ministry officials are yet compiling. _

_The public has been advised to notify the Ministry of Magic's War Commission Head Elvira Robbins if they see any suspicious changes in their surroundings that may indicate a magical gravesite.  
Mass graves have been confirmed in multiple locations throughout the British Isles as the Ministry has commenced their questioning of surviving Death Eaters, Aurors, and Order of the Phoenix members.  
The death toll is expected to rise dramatically as still more interviews are conducted._

_'It's really a sad state of affairs. There's been heavy casualties on all sides of the conflict. It's an unprecedented situation.' said Betelgeuse Sinclair, member of the War Commission. 'We're not yet sure about the Magical Creatures as we're still counting human casualties. The Goblins have had their own internal count however, and if it's anything like that... well, we're going to have to take drastic measures. Population numbers are dismal.'_

Hermione folded up the paper, sighing. Peace looked decidedly more complicated than she had expected it would.  
She was still living in a tent, but alone. Ron was home with his family, where she had decisively declined to join him. They needed time to be together, the Weasleys, without anyone else. That much both her and Harry had agreed on when they made their decision.  
Harry was staying at Grimmauld Place, an invitation she had declined with decidedly more guilt. Another pair of hands would probably have been greatly appreciated, but she needed time to think, time to figure out what she would do.

The thing is, she can't sleep. She leaps at every sound, ready to defend herself. _Constant vigilance, _she often smiles to herself tiredly before drifting off, finally, only to find herself in yet another nightmare. Again and again it happens. There are strange bent bodies, and great snakes twisting out of them before lunging at her. There are Death Eaters throwing curses. There is the rotten breath of Bellatrix Lestrange as she is interrogated, bright lights flashing in her eyes and her nerves on fire like touching hot coals.

* * *

_May 7 1998_

'Where am I? What's happened? Who in the name of Merlin are you?'  
'Mrs. Lestrange, it's ... nice to see you've come to. I'm Senior Healer Smithwyck, and you are at a secure specialty ward in St. Mungos. You've been out for 5 days while we've treated a series of injuries and repaired some spell radiation damage here and there.'  
'What?'  
'Give it a moment, it'll come back to you I'm sure. I explained it before you were given a Sleeping Draught.'

Healer Smithwyck continued trotting about the room, waving her wand in complicated movements around Bellatrix, who just then noticed the series of potions on a table next to her bed.

'Are those for me?'  
'I've already administered all of them while you were asleep. The last one just a few minutes ago, you'll be able to feel it soon enough.'  
'It feels awful.'  
'Indeed.'

It was as if an anvil was lifted off her chest, leaving her with her own feelings, which seemed feeble and colourless when compared to the intense longing she had been carrying with her these past few years. But... she had loved him. She thought she had really loved him. Had she not?  
Certainly she had, long ago. Then, Azkaban had made nearly everything disappear and turned the rest all wrong. Some feelings had come back, of course. She still loved her family, Cissy and even Draco. Rodolphus maybe. But perhaps she hadn't... now she thought of it she could not remember ever feeling that particular kind of surge of emotion around the Dark Lord after Azkaban until... until he had offered her some wine the evening after the Department of Mysteries, while she was recovering from her injuries. At Malfoy Manor. She'd always chalked her lack of desire for Him up to dazedness from Azkaban or even an adjustment to his new appearance, but alas it seems her Lord has betrayed her yet again, unknowingly this time. Her Lord, what a joke! What saved her from Azkaban had never been the man she missed. And yet she had wanted that man with a passion beyond anything she had ever felt for anything else. Bellatrix knew now, however, that it had not been love after Azkaban, it had been gratitude.  
She turned her head to peer over at the Healer who was busily scribbling on a chart.

'Is Rodolphus alive?'  
'Your husband is alive, but he is in very serious condition, I'm afraid.' the Healer said, though she did not sound sorry at all.  
'Oh.'

She could try to escape, of course. But she was awfully tired. Tired of running, tired of escaping, tired of fighting. Molly bloody Weasley had nearly done her in, for Merlin's sake. And they had lost. What was the point? She settled more firmly against her pillow.  
She had lost long before now, really. This wasn't what she had wanted. She'd wanted _him _most of all, but the man who freed her wasn't the man she'd gone to prison for anyway. She'd lost everything 17 years ago. Now, she supposed, they'd only keep her alive so they could administer the Kiss.

'I need to address some of your soul damage with you now that you are awake.' Healer Smithwyck addressed her.  
'Excuse me?'  
'Well, if you'll pardon my assumption it is likely you have soul damage for a variety of other reasons, but I am specifically thinking of Azkaban right now. We are offering all patients recovering from Azkaban some potions to recover. There are several steps. The first is to induce remorse, to start the soul healing from the Dementors. It seems processing what you feel worst about in life is the best route to recovery, and we will have a soul Healer attend to that with you. Best not to let anything painful fester in your heart, you see. After that you will be given various potions to induce a variety of emotions, and go through them with a soul healer as well. Most of those will revolve around dreams, happy memories, and love, so the remorse will be the least pleasant, I expect.'

The Healer peered down at Bellatrix curiously.

'The soul damage interferes with your magic if left unattended, makes it unstable and difficult to control. Tends to mess with the mind, as well. It isn't the best for your mental health to leave it unchecked.'

Healer Smithwyck pulled herself up, and stood directly in front of Bellatrix, considering her.

'I am offering you Essence of Remorse, just like everyone else. It will only begin the process, you must complete it yourself with the Healer if you wish for it to have any effect. Most of our patients were not imprisoned through any fault of their own, and as such their healing wasn't really that difficult. I feel, however, it is my duty to warn you that the process will likely not be as bearable for you. We have Healers here who are willing to guide you through it if you wish. But it is... likely exceedingly difficult and painful.'

'Will it... will it help with the nightmares?'  
'Nightmares? Not at first, but later on I expect it will.'  
'I'll do it then.'

_At least they aren't chucking me back in there_, Bellatrix thought. S_o long as they don't put me back there I think I could bear anything. _

* * *

_May 8 1998_

It took all her influence and all her anger and willpower and persuasion but finally Hermione managed to secure a meeting with Bellatrix Lestrange at St. Mungos, having been warned that the Death Eater is on some sort of potion causing her to be less than lucid. But Hermione has gathered all her courage to do this because she needs the answers she expects only Bellatrix has, so she goes to see her anyway.

'Are my parents alive?' she demanded with a plethora of Aurors looking on from every corner of the room. Bellatrix, magically restrained and face contorted in rage, grief and pain, confirmed that no one had attempted to find them as far as she knew. The Death Eater seemed completely out of her mind, as usual, thrashing wildly in seeming pain. Nevertheless, she manages to inform Hermione that once the house had been located and searched it had become clear the Trio had not spent any time there. It had, as such, subsequently been disposed of and the hunt for the Trio had continued elsewhere.

'Your filthy muggles were beneath our consideration.' Bellatrix smugly informed Hermione in a lucid moment before promptly crumbling again and Hermione almost curses her, but instead she storms out relieved and infuriated in equal measure. She is shaking but is uncertain if it is really an emotional response or simply the after-effects of the Cruciatis session she once received at the hands of Lestrange herself. She hardens at the feel of the criss-cross of scars that have thankfully faded from their angry red to a silvery sort of colour, and hopes secretly that Azkaban reopens to lock Bellatrix away forever.

But regardless of all that, Hermione can at least continue with her plans now.

* * *

Reviews much appreciated!


	3. Part 1: Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: Mr. H. Potter and the universe in which he resides belongs not to me, but to it's author J.K Rowling. **

**A/N: Warning for het, if that offends you.  
**

_**Chapter 3**_

_May 9-13 1998_

After the war there were lots of funerals. Hermione and Harry tried to attend every funeral they could, letting Ron stay with his family until it was time to lay Fred to rest.  
Fred was always so vivacious that the fact that the simple urn lowered into the ground in the small graveyard outside Ottery was all that remained seemed incomprehensible. The Weasley clan, while still a large family, seemed starkly diminished without their Fred.  
It was a very quiet service. After, Percy, Charlie and George set off a massive display of fireworks. Molly served all of Freds' favourite dishes, and everyone tried to enjoy it. It is likely what Fred would have wanted.

The other service that stands out for Hermione is the laying to rest of Colin. Colin Creevey is the picture of innocence as his still body is displayed in an open-coffin service. His parents, having had some difficulty explaining to their friends and family what killed their son, eventually settled on 'sudden heart failure'. It isn't as well attended as most of the wizarding funerals. It seems a lot of people don't know quite what to wear or how to behave at a muggle funeral, and have chosen to send cards of condolence instead. Those have been displayed on a large bookshelf in the Creevey home sitting room, filling the room with the smell of parchment. Kingsley Shacklebolt does show up, in a very impressive suit, and introduces himself to Colins' parents as the Minister for Magic, and hands over a posthumous Order of Merlin. They seem to take heart at this.  
Dennis holds his brothers' camera close throughout, carefully documenting the proceedings. He takes a photograph of Hermione standing against the backdrop of hundreds of magical greeting cards which he owls her later.

_May 16 1998_

Hermione had rarely felt as nervous as she did today. There he was, the boy she's known for so long and whom she has wanted so badly and who has broken her heart again and again. He sits there at a table at the Leaky Cauldron, waiting for her.

'Hi.'  
'How are you, Hermione?'  
'Oh, I'm alright. How are you? How is everyone?'  
'Terrible.' he looked dejected, old. 'Mum's a mess. It's her brothers all over again, see. Death Eaters killed them last time. They were in the Order.'  
'I'm sorry, Ron.' she bit her lip. Even now, with sorrow contorting his features, he was strangely beautiful. They sat in silence for a while until Hermione got up. 'Come on. Take my hand.'

He stands up and Hermione twists in midair and they are gone, reappearing in a forest clearing. She takes out her wand to allow them to pass through her wards.

'It's the tent Bill gave us! Blimey, I'd almost forgotten.' Ron burst out, a smile cracking his face.

'Yeah, I've been living here the past few weeks. McGonagall even gave me an enchanted plate from Hogwarts that fills up with food at mealtime, and this tent smells much nicer. It's comfortable, really.' she isn't sure who she is trying to convince, but it sounds almost true. _I have nowhere else to go because I can't stand to be around anyone else right now and Death Eaters blew up my house _doesn't have as nice of a ring to it, anyway.

For a while they stand there, holding hands and looking at it.

Finally they have some time, just the two of them. They haven't been alone together for nearly a year, not really. So much has happened since then. But here, they can pretend nothing is different, or at least so she hopes. It feels like their kiss was a lifetime ago.

'I'm going to be helping George run the shop. I start in two weeks.'  
'That's wonderful, Ron. Really. I don't know what I am going to do yet.'  
'I expect you'll join Ginny in repeating seventh year, right? You can't possibly resist the few extra trips to the library it'll afford you.'  
He chuckles and she gives him a friendly shove.  
'What? A return to homework and revision schedules has always been your dream, hasn't it?' he grins. She punches his shoulder gently.  
'Honestly, Ron. You're terrible.' she smiles.

The tension has broken.

They talk. They laugh. They cry, which is rather unexpected. At least she is surprised Ron cries.

They used to have a lot of time together. Especially during the school holidays. Letters exchanged (they'd jokingly called them the Secret Letters of Secrets), and whispered conversations before Harry was let out from the Dursleys nearly every year. The two of them had always had fun and today is no exception. As Ron laments the halting of Quidditch matches ('What's it going to do for them to halt matches for a whole month? I mean, for Merlin's sake, no one is arguing the reconstruction depends on the condition no one attends sporting events. Personally, I think some cheering up is in order.') she decides that she has waited long enough. Years and years, just waiting for one stupid, bloody peaceful moment, really. Well, peace has come now and there is too much grief, fuelling a feeling of sudden urgency. So she takes his hand and drags him over to the large bedroom and sits him down on the bed.

'I've missed you.' she almost whispers it as she traces his arm, caressing the burn marks and scars there. There are faint imprints of Devil's Snare branches, and it fills her with a longing more intense than she can explain.  
'I've missed you too, Hermione.' His blush is a deep crimson. The tips of his ears are as bright scarlet as ever, and Hermione finds that she can no longer help herself when she sees it. She leans in and kisses him, deeply. He stiffens, but soon melts into her touch. After a while she finds she is roaming his body, whilst he touches her ever so gently. It's as if he is afraid he will break her, and it strikes her as rather sweet. She knows him so well, she can so easily sense that he is, as always, afraid of getting it wrong. Ron is the sort of boy who has always needed gentle handling. Perhaps it is why she has so spectacularly failed at securing him before now, she muses.  
'Ron, I want you.' she says it softly. It is meant to be reassuring, but it sounds breathy and rather more direct than she intends. She decides she does not mind, and grabs at his shirt. Ron is wearing muggle clothes today, which she finds comfortingly familiar, a touch of something normal again after all this time in magical she finally removes his shirt she discovers that it isn't just his arms. He is covered in scars, many of them obviously fresh burn scars from Gringotts made faint with Dittany, and more faint Devil's Snare marks snake across his torso. She's glad for the scars, in a way. She has quite a few of her own. She notes the tendril marks left by the brain in the Ministry, and she drags her lower lip across them, trying to feel the edges. His left arm is deeply marked where he was splinched. It is both disconcerting and comforting that she finds she knows every story written across him already. Where does their history end and the part that is simply Ron begin? There are scrape-like scars on his back that seem oddly small for his size. They must be from long ago. 'What are these?' she whispers, ghosting her fingers across them. 'I fell off my broom when I was seven.' She smiles, and kisses the spot before continuing her journey across his torso.

Slowly she explores his body, eventually removing his trousers. He seems too stunned to react to any of it at first, before enveloping her in a rather enthusiastic reciprocation before long.  
Everything else she has hoped about her life has fallen apart. She will not give him up, too. She needs this and so she takes it. Not just peace now. At least one victory, after all this time.

_May 17 1998_

She felt as though something has finally come together in her life as she shares a nice breakfast with Ron. It isn't difficult to decide what to do next. It feels oddly final, like her perspective has shifted. This concludes the list of things she wished to accomplish before embarking on her next adventure.

'Ron, I'm going to Australia to get my parents.'  
' did you have in mind? I've got to speak with George about the shop before I can go.'  
'This is... it is something I have to do on my own. Will you help me pack up after breakfast?'  
'You're going NOW?'

The hurt on his face is unmistakable, and understandable.

'I want to get it over with as soon as possible, yes. It is rather important, after all.' she raises her eyebrows at him, 'Ron, I need to do this alone, I really do. They're my parents. It isn't like I'm leaving you behind forever, I'm just going to find them. Besides,' she leans toward him and looks him straight in the eyes, 'we've still got today.'  
He turns a furious shade of scarlet immediately and she smirks. She's not quite sure how she ended up being so confident about this, but she is satisfied it has happened this way. After all, someone needs to take charge and Ronald Weasley isn't the most take charge sort of person, not about these sort of things anyway.

That evening they pack up the tent, and apparate together to Grimmauld Place. They say their farewells and she leaves the boys behind to step into the night after many assurances of her absolute safety. Harry hands her one part of the two-way mirror anyway.

_May 17-June 2 1998_

Wizarding long-distance travel is complicated. It is most unfortunate, but this has not been an issue Hermione has paid too much mind. Until now. _It is as I suspected, _she sighs wearily to herself. _No research is ever wasted. I could've been so much better prepared. _She rolls her eyes, thinking of Rons' likely response.

Portkey is the conventional mode of transport for long-distance travel but since it needs to be authorized Hermione eschews it. She instead takes the broom she has on loan from Professor McGonagall (whose enthusiasm for brooms is as unexpected as it is fervent), Apparates to Dover and flies to France. The travelling broom is relatively comfortable, has a compass and a permanent temperature charm on it, so in spite of the cold wind she is not freezing.

The black travelling cloak that seems so ubiquitous in the wizarding world makes perfect sense to her now, as she flies over Muggle dwellings in the night, with her cloak wrapped tightly around her, creating a sort of cocoon that keeps her warm and shields her from sight. It isn't just fashion after all.

Once daybreak finds her she lands in a field, sets up her tent and protective enchantments, closes the blinds and tries to rest. At nightfall, she concentrates with all her might and apparates into the unknown. Apparition has become second-nature now, but once she reaches Gibraltar she takes her broom out once more and flies shakily into the night. National borders often govern where one can apparate, and while Hermione is aware of the European Wizarding Nations regulations on the matter, she is a bit uncertain if one can apparate directly from Spain to Morocco.

Being uncomfortable with broom travel is not an option for the witch or wizard who seeks privacy. Brooms cannot be tracked, except by sight or if someone's already put a tracking charm on the broom in question. No one has on this broom (McGonagall has assured her as much, and she's double- and triple-checked just to be sure). Hermione's wish for privacy is stronger than her discomfort. This journey has been planned in private moments over the last few weeks, albeit with little research done, and she will not stop simply because she is travelling on a small piece of wood that is going much too fast and flying much too high for her to ever truly relax. It might be exhausting, but she is Hermione Granger. She's flown on Thestrals and dragons and she'll be damned if this silly broom will defeat her.

The days pass until she reaches, finally, Zambia. Here there is a wizarding stronghold, a well-run and efficient Ministry that has yet to re-open diplomatic relations with the British Ministry (it seems abhorrent and nonsensical to exclude Muggleborns in a society where the borders between the magical and mundane are somewhat more porous and magic has traditionally been welcome). She registers for a Portkey at the Portkey office in Kabwe to take her directly to Perth.

Once she is safely in Perth she simply looks up her parents in the phone book, quickly finding their dental practice listed. Some things are really rather simple, too, and thank goodness for that. No Fidelius charm conceals them, no anti-intruder spells protect them. She finds it comforting and terrifying all at the same time. Muggles are too easy to find. Thank goodness they had been 'beneath consideration'.


	4. Part 1: Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: Mr. H. Potter and the universe in which he resides belongs not to me, but to it's author J.K Rowling. **

**Chapter 4**

_June 28 1998 _

Harry Potter looked unusually downcast as he stared down into his kitchen table. Silence filled the kitchen at Number 12 Grimmauld Place.

'I thought it would be easier now. You know, to live my life, to be a regular bloke. But all the things that have happened... well, I... I haven't been sleeping well.' he mumbled it so quietly that Hermione almost misses it.

Kreacher is off organizing his precious collection of Black family heirlooms, which Harry has decided to let him keep in the attic after cleaning it out with him. Kreacher has also moved a select few heirlooms into his new dwelling in a large unused pantry in the kitchen, which Harry has helpfully repainted and cleaned up for him, even going out and getting a children's bed frame and shrinking it down so Kreacher has a proper place to sleep. 'A mattress in a cupboard is not a fit place for anyone.' he insisted in a most grim tone as he meticulously hung a gallery of Kreachers favourite Black family members on the wall around the shelf and cupboard he had installed there for the elf to keep his things in, and it broke Hermione's heart to hear the hollow note of his voice. She knows the wounds from Harry's childhood run deep, but it isn't something they ever talk about if it can be avoided.

Hermione clutched her coffee mug as tears threaten to fall.

'I've had some trouble with that myself.' she confessed. 'Any other news?'  
'I am going to move into Grimmauld Place permanently. I'm hiring another house elf to help Kreacher and... well, you're still welcome to stay with me if you want. We're getting rid of the last Dark stuff soon, too.'  
'Do you think you can?'  
'Clean it up completely? Yeah. I've... I've written to Narcissa Malfoy about it. She reckons she knows the old family spells that Sirius never learned. She also reckons some of the portraits might actually willingly get off the walls if she's taking them. So... it should be fine. The Ministry is holding her, but they're going to let her help me.'  
'Wow. Just... wow, Harry. You trust her to help you?'  
'I don't think I have much choice. And she did save my life, you know. The Auror detail she has at all times also feels rather comforting.' he flashed her a smile, 'Would you like to move in with me then or are you just going to live in that tent forever?'

She leans back in mock sincerity, seemingly thinking it over.

'Well, it's a tough decision. On the one hand you've got this large, comfortable house and on the other I have my _wonderful_ tent. Although I suppose... I don't know if you've ever been camping, Harry, but living in a tent can actually get rather tedious after a while.'

They both chuckled at that before silence fell and she deliberates only for a few moments longer before deciding this is the time to confess.

'I'm not staying in the tent forever, obviously. However, I am also not moving in with you, Harry. I am moving away for a while. Away from all of this.'

Harry nodded, but seems to steel himself, gripping his mug tightly. After a tense few moments he looked up.

'Hermione, it's not your fault. It isn't anyones fault. You did the best you could, you did what you had to do. I can see you're blaming yourself, but you really shouldn't.' gripping his mug like a lifeline he continues, 'I always wanted to be a Weasley, you know. But in the end... well, you and I have always been the odd ones out, haven't we? Ron... I don't think he knows what it's like, really, to be alone like we are. He's never experienced it. You and I are different. Our families have never understood or been a part of our lives in that way and... Well, in Godric's Hollow... for all that happened I'm still glad it was you I shared my first trip there with. We've only got each other. We're family, you and I, as far as I'm concerned. We've still got each other.'  
'Oh, Harry! That's... well, I mean to say... I... I think of you the same way.'

She sighed.

'They're staying in Australia, Harry. My parents. They aren't really that angry with me. Death Eaters blowing up our street sort of demonstrated my point rather brilliantly, and Australia has really been agreeing with them. I've saved their lives, even if some of their memories might have been lost. I had no way of knowing I needed to protect all my neighbours as well, though. I...'

She broke off. It didn't matter how guilty she was or wasn't, the guilt she felt weighed as heavy on her either way. People were dead because of her. They'd never even known there was any danger. She hadn't even thought to warn her neighbours to look out for people in funny costumes or dark cloaks...

'The Dursleys are moving to back to Surrey. They've been hiding out in Ireland, apparently. I met Dudley the other day at their debriefing. He's spent all his time exercising and reading and keeping his head down. He's... well-mannered and stuff. It's beyond weird. He's changed so much.' Harry interjects.

'Haven't we all?' she paused, staring into her tea cup for a few seconds.

She sighed before plodding on.

'I'm going back to Australia, too. Nobody there knows me. I can finish school, spend a few years not being hounded by those bloody annoying Prophet photographers. Hopefully spending time in actual sunshine. You know... the sort of thing you could also need.' she gives him a warm smile.

'That is a very interesting offer, Hermione.' he looks impressed that she has offered, but not all together interested. This will not do.

'Well, in all honesty, Harry... you can't stay here. This isn't a home, it's a bloody mausoleum of awful memories. You'll never find peace here. Clean it up, by all means, but don't stay here. You need new surroundings.'

He stares at her, astonished. She huffs, annoyed that she has to be the one to point out the obvious.

'Harry, I've been thinking it over and well... what we need now isn't for the bad part to be over. It is already. What we need is for the good part to begin. Let's go somewhere we can not only be rid of the bad, but where we can embrace the good, alright?'

After several moments of seemingly turning it over in his mind, he looks over at her, cautiously.

'I suppose you're right. When do we tell Ron?'

* * *

_June 1998 St. Mungo's Hospital_

'How are you feeling mrs. Lestrange?'  
'I... well, I don't...'

Bellatrix Lestrange burst into tears in front of no less than five Aurors, the Minister of Magic himself, and two Healers. Once she would have considered it humiliating, now she no longer cared much for her dignity.

'We've some things to discuss with you, madame Lestrange.' boomed the Minister, not much moved by her rather dramatic display of emotion.

'I think you should know the terms of your incarceration, and how we are proceeding with you. These are things I feel everyone has the right to know.  
First, we've put a lock on your magic. Second, your assets have been seized to aid the Ministry in its recovery process. You should consider yourself under arrest, as a recently captured escaped convict. For the time being we will not start the trial preparations, as you have some health concerns that need to be addressed.  
The third thing I wanted to inform you of is that... we've had some security breaches. You will be moved to a containment location where you will reside until further notice, where there will be Healers to help with your... recovery.'

He considered her, with obvious distaste.

'That is all, I suppose. Good day to you.'

And he stalked out.

_I've spent the last 18 years working for freedom, and all I've earned myself is a smaller box in which to live. Sod it all. _When Bellatrix is dragged none too kindly from her bed by the Auror nearest her she does not protest.

_February 1962 Slytherin Common Room_

'Have you ever seen a Muggle, Rod?'  
'No, I haven't. But my father says that they are complete beasts. I wouldn't want to be around such filth, I shouldn't think.'  
'They're awfully dangerous, you know. Before the Statute they used to murder witches and wizards in droves. They burned them for the most part.'  
'I saw in 'A History of Magic' that it doesn't work most of the time. They're too stupid, can't do it right. Forget to take away their wands, see.'  
'Oh, it does work! My father told me all about it. They lie to us, Rod, the ones who like Muggles. But my father showed me some books that tell the truth about Muggles. They can kill us. Think about it, they killed that Gryffindor ghost, didn't they? They drown us and they burn us and they hate us all. Witches especially, though. That's why we can never go near them, my father says. They're too jealous of our magic and they'll kill us to get to it. Father won't even take us to our aunt and uncles' house in London except by Floo because they live in a Muggle area.'  
'Have you seen any Muggles there, then?'  
'Yes.'

Bellatrix's eyes shone with excitement. Her voice was a reverent whisper now.

'I've seen them walking around outside, but they can't see us, see? I can see them from the window in the library.'  
'What do they look like, then?'  
'Oh, well... they look very strange in their costumes, and... well, there's a sort of dullness about them. Like they're missing something.'  
'Wow.' Rodolphus beams at her conspiratorially.  
'My mother told me they burnt down our family's house before the Statute of Secrecy. There were lots of kids in the house, and they all died! It wasn't for any reason at all except our magic.'  
'That's horrible, Trix! That's why we came to Britain, too. In France, you're even expected to mingle with the filth.'  
Rodolphus' face takes on a contemplative expression.  
'Do you think the Mudbloods are like that, too?'  
'I don't know. My father says it's best to stay away from them. Just to be safe. They expose our world to Muggles, after all. They're not to be trusted.'

Rodolphus nods, and they lean over their Potions homework once more. It has been almost 6 months since they've first seen a Muggleborn but they haven't yet dared speak to one.


	5. Interlude No 1

**Disclaimer: Mr. H. Potter and the universe in which he resides belongs not to me, but to it's author J.K Rowling. **

**A/N: Just some light vignettes. Compare and contrast and all of that :)  
**

**Feedback is still most welcome!**

**Interlude no. 1**

_September 1, 1991 King's Cross Station, London England_

_Right, this is it. This is it. You can do this. People do this all the time. _Hermione practically tip-toes at the entrance while waiting for her parents to finish their study of the King's Cross station map on the wall. _I hope I've read enough about how things work to fit in. Please let me be normal, just please let me be normal. Oh, please! What if they don't like me either? _Her anxiety is running as high as it ever has on this foggy London morning.

As her parents lead her gently through the station to the appropriate platform her nerves finally kick into overdrive. _I know they'll hate me. _She was panicking now. _Everyone always does. Why should they be any different?_

When professor McGonagall had come to call on her and her parents, she had been taken aback, certainly, but really she had been intensely relieved to discover that she was not a freak of nature (at least not in a terribly negative way), and most important that there was indeed somewhere she truly belonged. And this muggle world was not it.

There were other children like her. What she could do really was magic.

The thought had kept her warm through the winter and summer. McGonagall had come to call already last autumn, when Hermione turned eleven. She had been given instructions on how to acquire all the equipment she would need for school in spring, and had promptly gotten everything ready when the time had come. She had spent the whole summer pouring over her school books and hoping beyond hope that she would be good enough in this new world. That other children would like her. That this would be the start of a wonderful life if she simply applied herself to make it so. Sure, she was eleven years behind, but she would do everything within her power to catch up, and hopefully eventually excel.

Now, standing by the barrier between platform nine and ten, she feels rather apprehensive and a bit queasy about the whole business. All the same, she tries a winning smile when she looks up at her parents.

'Alright, then. I better get going.' her voice cracks.  
'Oh, darling. We will miss you terribly, but you are going to have so much fun! Just you wait and see. Mum and I will see you at Christmas.'

They hug for what seems a really long time. Hermione clings to her fathers strong frame, wishing he could simply carry her away. Eventually she is forced to let go, and her mother gives her a kiss and assures her they will write to her every day if need be.

And then Hermione Granger steps through to Platform 9 and ¾, entering the world in which she really belongs for the very first time.

_September 1, 1962 King's Cross Station, London, England_

Bellatrix let go of her father's arm the moment she steadied herself on the platform. Portkey travel was not easy for an 11-year old, but her father had insisted once it became clear how terribly busy the Floo connection was. Lots of witches and wizards preferred to simply travel to Diagon Alley and then cross through the city and enter the platform like Muggles, but Bellatrix's father thought this distasteful and dangerous.

'Are you alright, my darling?' he inquires, smiling down at her.  
'I'm fine, father.' she brushes off her robes, trying not to show how ill she feels.  
'You did wonderful for your first time. It's alright to feel a bit sick.' he peers at her indulgently before looking around.

She takes his hand and leads him toward the great steam engine. She thinks it is fantastic, but knows her father doesn't really approve of it. Trains, it seems, are an old muggle invention that has made its way to Hogwarts simply for being practical for moving hundreds of children through the magical barriers protecting Hogsmeade and Hogwarts.

Her eyes are evidently a bit too wide at the sight of the train for her father not to notice, however.

'It is terribly impressive, isn't it?' he asks, amused.  
'A little bit, yes. I mean, I think so.' she beams. He sighs dramatically.  
'I suppose I better get with the times. I'll forgive the train.'

And they walk hand in hand through the platform, admiring the train together. Bellatrix is secretly glad mother is working today, as she would not take to the hustle and bustle. But her father strolls majestically with his fine emerald robes, his long black hair tied with a silver clasp, raised far above all the confusion and noise. Bellatrix looks eagerly around, clinging to her fathers hand. She's never seen so many children in one place before. She recognizes a few of them, but she feels a twinge of longing for her sisters all the same. She wishes they were here to share this with. Andromeda especially would like this, she thinks.

'Ah, here we are. There's a free compartment here.' her father peeks through a window. 'Let's get you on, shall we?'  
He consults his watch and grins at her.  
'My little warrior off to Hogwarts. I can hardly believe it.' he beams. 'You will have a wonderful time, my darling.'

Her worry must have shown, because he brings her in for a crushing hug. 'Do not worry. I am not worried, Bella. Not for you. I will miss you terribly, of course, but I know you will do well. Just remember your studies are always the most important, Bellatrix, and everything else will sort itself.'

'Will you write me?' she whispers.  
'Of course. Every day. I shall arrange for you to have the Prophet, as well. It is proper for a young witch to be up on the news. And of course, I am sure your sisters are composing their first letter already. You will have lots of post, don't worry.'

He draws her trunk out of his pocket and restores it to its original size before placing a Featherlight Charm on it and handing it over to her. She steps onto the train, waving at him as the train starts to move.


	6. Part 1: Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: Mr. H. Potter and the universe in which he resides belongs not to me, but to it's author J.K Rowling. **

**Chapter 5**

_August 3, 1998, Gringotts Wizarding Bank, London_

The meeting has been set for 10 o'clock sharp. A rather vicious looking goblin is sitting across the table, staring at Hermione, Ron and Harry.

'So, I hear you have plans.' he says at last.

They all half-nod nervously.

'I rather think you should know our plan first. You three have quite a debt to pay.' 

_August 7, 1998, Great Eastern Highway near Boorabbin National Park, Australia_

The sky is large in the Australian desert, stretching out endlessly above Hermione as she flies. She is following the road loosely, letting her mind wander without needing to pay too close attention to where she is going. She's cast a Disillusionment charm, and gotten her broom outfitted with one, as well.

She spots not a soul as she glides along. Her parents have agreed to let her stay with them for the time being.

'How are we even supposed to explain who you are? How are we to get our papers in order?'  
'How did you forge our papers, anyway?'  
'Where are our original passports? Are we even here legally, Hermione?'

Of course she had lied to Harry. Not about them being upset she'd done this, that wasn't it. But she hadn't known all one needs to know about muggle paperwork and about being an adult, and as such had made some blunders. She had been 17, and in spite of the dangers she had faced, living in a boarding school leaves one rather sheltered, after all.

'This isn't some witness protection Hollywood film, Hermione.' her father had scolded her.

So now, she would have to fix it. Luckily, this is the sort of thing the Ministry of Magic can help with, if one knows who to talk to. Relocating the Granger family seems prudent now that the the Wilkinses will cease to exist. There is a man she needs to see.

* * *

_August 25 1998 _

'Well, Bellatrix. How are you settling in?' the Healer asks her.  
She just stares at her. There is absolutely nothing to say.  
'Alright, let's get started then. Can you recall for me a happy memory?'  
She can indeed. _I have just the thing to show you, you silly witch. _She grins as she lets the Healer into her mind.

...

_October 1997, Diagon Alley, London England_

Bellatrix Apparates and lands decisively on the cobblestones of Diagon Alley for her first public shopping trip in a very long time._ I suppose it must have been... 16 years?_ she muses. Her legs stretch and she can feel the wind on her face and the sun burning in her eyes as she makes her way through the dilapidated shopping area. The streets bear unmistakable signs of war, of despair. _It will get better, once my Lord has some time. The future will be glorious. _She smiles.

The elation she feels as she giddily strides up the street is not even slightly marred by the wandless people moaning and screaming at her. Despair hardly registers anymore. She kicks a man, hard, when he tries to grab her. His face bleeds, and she grins. It's a beautiful day, and she is free.

...

'Alright, that's... well. So, you're not settling in so well, then?'  
She smiles her most poisonous smile.

* * *

_July 27th 2002, Port Musgrave, Mapoon, Queensland, Australia_

The harbour of Port Musgrave is a bustling wizarding area completely unknown to muggles. A small Aboriginal community exists here, but since long before their arrival, and before the arrival of the British, before even the Statute of Secrecy, this port has been a specifically magical area, founded by Aboriginal wizards. To the muggles, it appears as a shallow bay important mostly as a breeding area for saltwater crocodiles. To wizards, it is a vibrant harbour and a bustling town with renowned magical educational institutions and Australia's largest Portkey connecting point.

To Hermione, it is home. Ron and Harry have left again for Britain after a wonderful week together, and she still has another week before her next excursion will commence, so she is curled up in her favourite wing-backed chair preparing to read, for the first time, _Madman at the door: A critical history of the British Wizarding War _by Griselda Twiddleberk, eminent magical historian. It is thought, at least outside of Britain, to be a definitive volume on the subject, if the reviews are to be believed. Within Britain, people are rumbling about unflattering portrayals and the opening up of old wounds.  
Hermione has been forwarded a complimentary copy of the text by the author herself, although Twiddleberk has preferred to work almost entirely from the Pensieve Depositions and older interviews for any information Hermione (and everyone else) might possess, and has only conducted a short interview regarding Hermione's feelings on the whole mess now rather than go into any depth of her past experience. She doesn't mind, really, but is curious to see how accurate Twiddleberks information truly is, and to perhaps catch a glimpse of her younger self viewed firmly through someone else's retrospect.

She has come to accept, after many visits back to Britain, that her involvement was instrumental and that she will figure fairly prominently in all histories of the matter. She's been forwarded copies of plenty of other histories of the war, and of her role in it, before. However, she has not had any interest in reading any of them, still busily trying to hold on to her ownership of a difficult past. Her experience should be, such as it is, her own. It should be uncoloured by the official accounts, she has always maintained.  
Twiddleberk is, of course, a whole other matter. Hermione will not let this be the only text of hers that she does not read. She is also actually interested in Twiddleberks interpretation of the situation.  
She runs her hands carefully across the cover, admiring the engraved symbol of the Hallows, flaming red against a black background where one can see, in the right light, a ring of the six Horcruxes surrounding it, engraved. It is ominous, but beautiful. The back cover has an angry golden slash shaped very much like a familiar lightning bolt scar.  
She begins to read, scanning quickly through Twiddleberks' foreword wherein she explains her intention with the book (to shed light on a complex and oft misunderstood tragic political reality) and to discuss the implications. Some proceeds from the sale will be donated to St. Mungo's Hospital, Hermione is informed, and she smiles, remembering the kindly Healers who have provided so much help and relief to everyone she knows, herself included.  
When she at last starts on the main text, she is indeed quite surprised at the portrayal she finds. It is hauntingly familiar, though she is jolted ever so often with information she never knew. It often throws her own memories into such a sharp new context that she becomes quite uncertain if she truly wants to read what Twiddleberk has to say about her exploits.

A sudden knock on the door interrupts Hermione, and as she flings herself toward the door she barely registers that already the cogs in her mind have started turning the situation around, preparing her for yet another set of nightmares. They have gotten more intermittent over the years, but they are still prominent enough that she has never had anyone sleep over and not comment, except fellow nightmare sufferers. When Harry, Ron or Ginny visit, they often stay up through the night, drinking butterbeer and quietly sharing memories. When she visits her parents they bring her tea and water in the middle of the night, and they sit with her, always looking worried and gaunt. They know now roughly what has happened, and their accusations of her rashness when concealing them have entirely subsided.  
She flings open her front door, and is left speechless.  
She is confronted, at this of all possible moments, with Andromeda Tonks towering in her doorway looking very much like her malevolent sister, and she is thrown so forcefully into her own history again as to almost slam the door in Andromeda's face.

'May I come in?' Andromeda inquires as Hermione steadies herself.  
'Of course.' she answers after a beat, leaving the door open for her guest.

They settle quietly in the sitting room, Hermione in her chair and Andromeda on the sofa. Hermione summons tea. The noon sun is beating brightly against her windows, and Andromeda casts a silent spell that Hermione assumes is some sort of cooling charm.

'I haven't much time, so I'll just be direct. This isn't a social call.' Andromeda deadpans. 'I've come to offer you a job.'  
'I... I already have a job.' Hermione hesitates. Andromeda snorts.  
'Is that what you call it? Retrieving treasure for the goblins? Do you know how much an ordinary curse-breaker in this part of the world gets in wages? You're hardly to be considered an employee. You are merely paying a debt.'

She casts a scorning look at Hermione.

'A debt which, I might add, should have been paid in full by now.'

Hermione swallows, feeling her cheeks grow hot and her heart beating loudly in her ears.

'I... might have re-negotiated my agreement to include some... opportunities to secure my financial situation.'

Andromeda laughs.

'Oh, I know all about the agreement you have with them. Nevertheless, you have been fully trained for years, and this treasure hunting is useless now. You're needed at home, you see.'

Hermione finds she is almost speechless.

'Hermione, I am here to offer you a position in the Department of Mysteries effective immediately, should you choose to accept. You'd be trained as an Unspeakable. Continuing down the path of curse-breaking is of course not entirely optimal for you. You can be so much more! We've kept our eye on your progress, you see, and have decided to... requisition you. You've a keen mind for research. You've a keen mind for a lot of the things we do, in fact.'

'I... I didn't even know you worked for the Department of Mysteries.'

'I'm the Head of Department now, actually. No one knows apart from those who need to, as is customary, although I'm sure some have guessed. It's usually one of us old purebloods, you know, and one without the usual politics attached. You didn't think all those pureblood supremacists were protecting secrets of no importance, did you?'

This is such an entirely unexpected and intriguing confession that Hermione already knows she will accept the offer.

* * *

Reviews are much appreciated!


	7. Part 1: Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: Mr. H. Potter and the universe in which he resides belongs not to me, but to it's author J.K Rowling. **

**A/N: Thank you to my three kind reviewers! I truly appreciate your words of encouragement. More reviews most welcome, by the way!  
**

**Chapter 8**

_July 7, 2003 The Leaky Cauldron, London_

'You have got to be joking!'  
'What?'  
'This can't be music, this is mad!'  
'It's music...' Hermione frowned at Ron 'Muggle music, but still just music...'  
'Why is it so bloody strange, then?'  
'I can't believe I've neglected to show you this, but.. I suppose this is your first time hearing electronic music?'  
_'You can make MUSIC with electricity?'  
_'Bloody hell, Ron. I've told you muggles use electricity for damn near everything, haven't I? Keep your voice down!'  
'And what did you call this again?'  
'It's a walkman. A bit out of fashion now, but I couldn't resist getting this. It reminds me of when I was little, taking car trips with my parents, you know... childhood stuff.'  
'Merlins pants, Hermione! This is insane, bloody insane! It isn't going to blow up, is it?' Ron holds the walkman gingerly, running his fingertips over it with some apprehension.  
'Ronald! I've explained electricity to you a hundred times. It is perfectly safe! Give it back, will you?'  
'Hang on, hang on! I want to listen some more! It's completely bonkers!'

It is one of those moments where it is just so very clear to her what she has given up to be here. Namely, everything normal. Rolling her eyes, she turns her attention away from Ron and concentrates her gaze around the room. The Leaky Cauldron has once again become a rowdy place, full of witches and wizards enjoying themselves. A bemused Harry is watching Ron, but turns to let his gaze wander the crowd as well once Ron sinks deeper into the music. They're always doing this, she thinks. Keeping watch, wherever they are. And personally, Hermione isn't altogether convinced the walkman will not give out any moment from the the residual magic in the air, whatever she says to Ron.

'Wow. You know, for all I don't like Pansy Parkinson, she's really rather striking these days, isn't she?'  
_'What?'  
_'Oh, come on. The haircut, Harry! It's done wonders for her, frankly. The cow.'  
'Are you feeling alright?' he sniggers.  
'I've recently learned the art of gossip, can you tell?'

Letting out a small chuckle Hermione straightens to look at Harry. 'On a more serious note it was her and Slughorn who helped evacuate the kids once they were all in the Hog's Head, you know. They are considering getting her an Order of Merlin, a bit belatedly.'  
'Blimey, things have changed.' his gaze momentarily travels to somewhere far off before commenting rather casually, 'She was perfectly willing to sell me to Voldemort before the battle, though, wasn't she?'  
'But she wasn't willing to sell eleven year-olds to Voldemort. It's... well, I suppose she isn't a beacon of morality, but who is? I'm not the one to cast the first stone on any moral issue either way, as Rita Skeeter kindly reminded me yesterday when requesting a comment on your new job.'  
'Oh yeah? What did you say?''  
'I said you were obviously not keen to talk since Rita had to come to me for comment so perhaps she ought to work out any _bugs_ in her story and get back to me later. As for Parkinson, it seems like she was only willing to sell you to keep everyone else safe. She didn't have much to do with the Carrows, either. Turns out Cruciatis just isn't her curse.'  
'Where do you get all this stuff?' Harry stares at her, astonished.  
'As I said, I've learnt how to gossip. Which means from Ginny, really. Once you've read all that books have to offer, the only information left to mine is that which comes directly from people, she reckons. I found out about Parkinson from Percy.'

They turn back to their drinks for a moment before Hermione steels herself, gets up and walks over to the girl sitting alone at a far table. Pansy Parkinson looks nothing less than terrified.

'Hello' she starts awkwardly.  
'I'll leave, I'll leave, just please don't make a scene, I swear I don't mean any harm!' Pansy squeaks, shaking.  
'Uhm... Pansy? I just wanted to say hello, see how you were doing. It's been a long time.'  
'Oh. Uh... well, I suppose... I uh, I've been... well that is to say I've been alright. And yourself?'

Pansy's voice cracks on the last syllable, and somehow, in this case of her old school enemy, that is all the apology Hermione needs for everything that has ever happened.  
It takes a while, but in the end it turns out Pansy Parkinson is rather pleasant these days. That much could not be said of everyone else in the magical world, though, if her reactions are to be believed. It is, of course, understandable. Everyone in Britain is a little broken, after all. Pansy has been broken in a rather endearing sort of way, Hermione thinks.

There is a moment when she is really rather drunk and she sees Pansy there in front of her as Harry attempts conversation, and nothing is the same and this new person is so gentle that she reaches through the tension and she presses her mouth against a very soft pair of lips that taste of alcohol.

...

Staggering home at 3 in the morning together has never felt more difficult or more wonderful than it does tonight. The darkness seems deeper and warmer than usual, the city lights blink brighter. Hermione holds on to Harry to keep from falling over as Ron leans heavily into her. They catch their portkey at the Portkey station in Diagon Alley and when they reach the hallway of their flat they collapse, all tangled limbs and hysterical laughs, shoes and coats flying everywhere. After each of them has forced down a glass of water (Hermione insist they always do this, it is cheaper than hangover potions), they bid each other goodnight and Harry staggers to his room, Ron to his. Hermione thinks on it for only a moment, and perhaps it is the firewhiskey thinking for her, but she follows to Ron's room.

...

It is exactly 10 AM when Hermione exits Ron's room after a bit of a lie-in only to discover, as she attempts to scarper into her own room without having to see Harry's look of amusement, that they have a visitor.  
Of all the visitors Hermione thought they were likely to have in this flat, the Dursleys had not been high on her list, but she needs only a cursory glance at the blonde man sitting on the sofa to be certain that this has to be none other than the famous Dudley Dursley. She yelps her surprise, and hurries through her washing and dressing so she may support Harry during what must be an awkward visit.

The boys sit on the couch immersed in the most loaded silence Hermione has ever been witness to when she plops down on a chair, hair still damp and her comfiest blue robes on (really, what else could one wear to greet a Dursley?), ready to make nice. Harry attempts an introduction.

'Dudley, this is Hermione. Hermione, this is my cousin Dudley. You've met before, right?'  
They stare at each other, though there is no malice in Dudley's eyes that Hermione can see. Harry stares at the floor. Finally, Hermione can take no more.

'Dudley is a bit of an unusual name, isn't it?'  
'So is Hermione.' smiles Harry, visibly relieved.  
'It is, isn't it? I think my parents only named me Hermione because they thought it was a bit clever, to be honest. It's from Shakespeare.'  
'Mum is obsessed with British history. I think she specifically meant to name me for Robert Dudley, favourite to Queen Elizabeth the 1st. She's got a painting of him in the sitting room and everything.'

The astonishment on Harry's face could not be plainer.

'That's fascinating.' Hermione encourages, 'Would you like some tea then, Sir Dudley?' she smiles. Harry visibly relaxes when Dudley confirms his wish for tea and Hermione simply summons the damn teapot and teacups because, well, Dursley. His eyes aren't quite wide enough for it to be satisfying, though, and she remembers suddenly that he has at one time spent an entire year being guarded by wizards.

'It's been a while since I've seen that.' he comments, amused, when she points her wand at the tea which promptly places itself in the pot. Pointing her wand at the pot she aims first a silent _Aguamenti_, then adds a heating charm. Steam rises from the spout of the pot, and after a while it begins pouring tea into their cups of its own accord. Doing this now, for the first time in front of a Muggle, she recognizes again how truly amazing it is. Magic. She can do magic.

'So, Hermione, what do you... er, do?'  
'I'm an Unspeakable.'  
'Surprisingly, she's not allowed to talk about it.' Harry grins. Dudley laughs.

'She is, however, obligated to talk about last night. Or did I not see you snog, of all bloody people, Pansy Parkinson, last night?' Harry's faux tone of shock isn't enough to not make her blush at the accusation.

'I... might've. She had just... changed so much and I uh... appreciated it?' she tries to explain.  
'With your mouth.' Harry sniggers.

Dudley Dursley looks a bit shocked now, though still friendly.

'Oh, Harry. You've done worse, don't even start. It was just... we had a moment.'  
'Of snogging.'  
'Right.'

They burst out laughing, and soon Dudley cautiously joins in.

_August 5 2003 Ministry of Magic, London_

'Hello, miss Granger. Have a seat.'  
'Hello. You can call me Hermione, Minister, you know me.' she smiles nervously 'No need to be so formal.'  
'Very well, Hermione. Are you comfortable? Would you like some tea?'

When Hermione nods some tea appears in front of her. She clings to the cup. Being called to the office of the Minister has her rather nervous.

'Your academic record - you passed all your N.E. with Outstandings, is that correct?'  
'Yes, Minister. And I've apprenticed as a Curse Breaker prior to my current position.'  
'Yes, most excellent. I hate to see how many people have had their education interrupted by the war. Most unfortunate.' he ruminates.  
'I hope you're settling in well here at the Ministry?' he inquires, and she nods.  
'Oh, that's good. Good. Well, you see, I need your assistance with a project. After much consideration of the possible candidates, madame Tonks and I have decided that you are the most suited, so she has kindly lent you to me.'

He smiles brightly at her.

'You are, if I may say so, exceptionally talented. Not everyone can do small weather-working by the time they're twenty.' he twinkles at her knowingly.  
'Oh. Well, eh... thank you, Minister. That's very kind of you.' A rosy blush is spreading over her face. She does love praise, especially when it reflects so much effort.  
'The Ministry has sadly lost many of it's finest, a loss from whence we are still suffering, I'm afraid. We need those with talent and skill and intelligence now more than ever, as we are so sorely lacking specialists. Luckily, we've now got you.'

This is, even by Hermione Grangers' reckoning, laying it on thick as far as flattery goes. Basically saying he thinks of her as some sort of expert already? She shoots Kingsley a sceptical glance – nothing that needs this much flattery can be particularly pleasant.

'Well, let me get down to business then, shall I?' he smiles at her, and she notes it is rather nervous.

'There is, well...It is simply a matter of a small, or that is to say, a rather large actually... eh, favour of sorts.' the Minister himself is fumbling his words now.  
'We cannot afford to let the knowledge of anyone go to waste at this crucial juncture. Even those with abhorrent crimes in their past hold secrets worth preserving. We need someone to... oh, let me just be clear, Hermione. We've fought side by side. I need someone to take over the care of one particular remaining Death Eater. I'd rather not house all of them in the same prison, if it's all the same and well... I'd rather catch two birds with one stone if you understand me. We rather lack solid documentation on the workings of Voldemorts inner circle, you see. I know your specialty is Soul Magic, and as such your specific abilities will come to good use in this case. We need you because, well... rehabilitating Bellatrix Lestrange has proven less successful than we'd hoped. She possesses too much valuable information to be simply stored away just yet, you see, and while she's made great progress her soul healing has not been particularly successful which I thought could be of interest to you. To be clear, this would hopefully be a permanent solution. I do not mean to house her in any regular prison ever again. In fact, I rather hope we can get rid of those altogether. Housing wizards and witches against their will... one has to get rather severe in method before it works and I've rather lost the taste for that sort of thing.'

He pauses just long enough to draw a breath.

'Mrs. Lestrange has yet to undergo a successful deposition as we can't quite access her memories. We've seen enough to put a trial together, but there is much more there. I'd like you to Heal her and deposition her.'

_Oh shit_. Hermione blinks at the Minister. _Shit shit shit. _Catching her breath she gives a shaky sort of toss of her head. It is meant to convey confidence, but she does not need to look further than the Ministers' face to see it has utterly failed and she shrinks back, scrunching her forehead and rubbing her temples with her fingers.

'You are certain I am the only option, I presume?'  
'I am afraid so. We need somebody with very specific talents for this. Mrs. Lestrange has... well, she isn't quite what we expected her to be. I assure you she would be perfectly harmless, and once healed you'll hardly need to bother with her. It turns out to be quite lucky for us that she survived, really. All that knowledge of Voldemorts? Well, it seems he passed most of it to Madame Lestrange. Now she has a chance to repair at least some of the damage she has done, and we intend to use her for it.'  
'Right.' Hermione bites her lip. 'And what a great relief that will be for the victims and their families, I'm sure.' she can't help but add in an icy voice. _This is bloody ridiculous, _she thinks bitterly.

'Yes, well... that is the way it has to be, I'm afraid. Vengeance cannot be our only motivation for justice.' he takes a nervous sip of his tea in a very un-Kingsley like moment before he considers her, and finally composes himself.  
'I thought you might understand, Hermione, that there are things more important than punishing the guilty. Creating a life worth living for the innocent is, in my book, the highest priority of all. I am building a new society and was under the impression you understood that. You have always seemed supportive of it, at any rate.' The gaze he fixes her with burns in its intensity.  
'Of course, Minister. Forgive me.' she says, but it is half-hearted at best.

'For the more... official project I am offering you... well, we need someone to oversee the magic of the Isle of Poseidon. We haven't got anyone fully trained to do this, and you seem to be the best candidate to be apprenticed. This would also be a great place to permanently contain mrs. Lestrange, which is where that all comes in. You will be given the necessary training, and you will simply be posted as an Unspeakable and Ward master. No one will know of your other mission, nor of mrs. Lestranges' residency. You will, in short, receive a hybrid education for both projects, and the documentation work with mrs. Lestrange would take place once you're at the island and then hopefully you could... keep an eye on her there.'

'You want me to start with that, don't you?'  
The look he casts her is answer enough.  
'Hermione... well, the island is not yet inhabited, and getting mrs. Lestrange situated and evaluated before anyone else arrives would indeed be an advantage.'  
Hermione steels herself, gathering all the Gryffindor courage she can muster.  
'I'll need to meet with her first. I don't know if I can do it, Kingsley.' she looks directly at him when using his name. This is not a professional matter, it is personal, and she needs him to know that, needs him to know what he is asking of her. 'She tortured me.'  
He has the grace to look uncomfortable. 'I know.' he replies. 'I've seen it.'

_Stupid Pensieve_, she replies bitterly to herself as she slips out of the Ministers' office. _Not even bloody memories are private for the Golden Trio. _She pulls a face before entering the lift.

...

She returns to the flat in Diagon Alley in a daze.

'What's wrong?' Ron asks, looking as innocently incredulous as always, as though no one could ever be mad enough to think something is less than perfect when they are in the presence of Ronald Bilius Weasley, master of dismissing all concerns as ludicrous so long as there is enough food. She flings her arms around him.

'Kingsley wants to give me a new job.' she half-sobs.  
'I can see why that is upsetting, obviously, but I assure you being a Ministry paper-pusher will not actually kill you, Hermione.'  
'Ron! Honestly, you're horrible.' she smiles into his shoulder, relishing the comfort of his warm sweater and strong, angular shoulders as he grins at her affectionately.

They sit down on the couch Ron has purchased for them, brand-new, to be spell-proof and stain-proof. It is uncharacteristically tasteful and exceptionally comfortable. Ronald Weasley has grown into a man who appreciates style and invests his Galleons wisely. Hermione thinks Ron also feels it important that people know he has some gold now, although neither her nor Harry would ever point that particular motivation out to him.

'He wants me to be the... resident Unspeakable researcher of Isle of Poseidon. To do the security and magical upkeep and all that.'  
'Seems reasonable enough. You can do that, Hermione, no problem.'  
'Yes, yes, that isn't the problem. Managing the wards of Isle of Poseidon actually sounds extremely interesting. The problem is that... well, that Isle of Poseidon will be the containment location for Bellatrix Lestrange. Which means I'd be in charge of her safety and well-being, and Kingsley also wants me to... mine her for information on the war and dark magic and bloody Voldemort.'

The look of disgust and incredulity on Ron's face is ever so satisfying.

'He can't be serious? She tortured you! She killed Sirius!'  
'Actually, she didn't kill Sirius, at least not officially, although a brief glance at her formal conviction informed me she's killed at least 27 other people if that's any consolation.' she remarks drily.

'He's gone mad! That's barking mad, that is! Hold on!'

At that Ron runs off into the kitchen to attend to their impending meal, swearing loudly and cursing Bellatrix Lestrange, Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Ministry of Magic and, inexplicably, Harry. The latter turns out to simply be because Harry is late for supper.

...

'He's packing off all the Death Eaters with different Unspeakables, and even a few Healers. No one knows who has any of them, apparently. It's all very secret.' Harry informs her over dinner.

'How do you know, then?' Ron questions, incredulously.  
'McGonagall told me.'

Ron snorts at this and stabs his fork through a piece of roast beef.

'S'not all that secret if everyone is being told about it.' he mutters darkly.

'Well, I was only told because I'll be helping oversee visitation for some of the children over the holidays. I think I was chosen because they assumed Hermione would tell me, to be honest.'

...

'It feels like I'm lying, you know. I mean, Kingsley certainly knows the story and I'm not sure why he pretends it's different... but it still feels dishonest.'  
'We've all got to pretend, Hermione. It isn't as if any of us has a normal professional background.'  
'It's not an equal comparison, Harry. You're not a recently released hostage.'  
'You could've just paid them off, Hermione. I've always maintained you should've let Harry handle it and -'  
'Ron! You know I couldn't. The dragon was... well, I had to make my reparations.'  
'And my teaching isn't reparations?' Harry shoots in.  
'Well, personally I am not concerned with any reparations, especially not in my business of importing and adapting muggle objects so wizards and muggles can more easily communicate and understand each other.'  
'Ronald Weasley, master of sarcasm. I never thought this day would come.' Harry grinned.

Hermione sighs, exasperated. In a way, it had been easier when Harry and Ron were clueless teenage boys. These young men are far too difficult to win arguments with.

'It isn't the same. You know it's true, so stop it, alright? There were no goblins demanding you be their slave for years in exchange for your re-entry to Britain.'  
'You make it sound so bloody dramatic, though.' Ron rolled his eyes, 'You could've said no. I did, I negotiated my payment and I've made them. So did Harry. Merlin, I made my payments with money I collected from _peddling_ your inventions! You chose to apprentice with them and retrieve treasure in exchange for your reparations. Choosing slavery makes it not slavery, remember?'  
'It is our choices that makes us who we are, Hermione.' Harry boomed sombrely.  
'Oh, for the love of all that is holy, are you quoting Dumbledore to win arguments now?'

They all burst out laughing at this ridiculousness, and trying to bring the subject up again over dessert proves fruitless. Clearly, this is getting her nowhere. Sympathy has, after all, never been a strong suit for either of the boys except in cases of actual peril. Some things, luckily, will never change.

'You just don't understand. I was excited, really, to be apprenticing with them. I thought of it mostly as an opportunity until I had signed the contract and then... well, the goblins aren't quite the same once they've got you to boss around, you know. They weren't under any doubt that I was a criminal being held against my will for punishment.'  
'Did you end up becoming an actual curse-breaker?' Ron demands, pointing his fork at her as he is wont to do.  
'Well, yes...'  
'And did you even earn quite a bit of treasure for yourself in the end?'  
'Oh, for Merlin's... fine, Ron. You win. It isn't important what the Minister thinks.'  
'Are you going to take the job?'  
'I don't know. Do you think McGonagall would hire me if I quit now?'


	8. Part 1: Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns everything, I own nothing.**

**A/N: Alright, here we are at the last installment of part 1. The next installment is another 'intermission'. I think it is an entirely necessary addendum so you, dearest readers, can deduce where I stand on canon with this story. Then the fun stuff starts.  
**

**I truly value and appreciate any feedback you might have, so please review!**

**Chapter 9**

_September 2, 2003 Hastings, England_

'I'm here to see Lestrange.'  
The Aurors nod at her. 'She's got no wand and the wards keep her in there. So go ahead. She can't hurt you.'

Hermione moved forward, when one of the Aurors, a tall scruffy-looking man, added in a low voice, 'And we respectfully submit that you do not attempt to kill her, please, however tempting it might be. We don't much fancy the paperwork. We've just barely patched her up from the last visitor.'  
Throwing him a look, she proceeded through the door and into a hallway. _I guess this is why Kingsley wants me to take over as warden, _she mused toward the sitting room she could feel the wards move in around her, permeating the air, bouncing off her skin. Her heart beat loudly in her ears. This was a bad idea. Trauma, the soul healer called it back then. Trauma. The source of a great deal of her trauma was on the other end of this hallway. _Am I ready to deal with this again_ she wondered as she walked carefully on the carpeted floor. As she moved closer her thoughts became more frantic. This woman was evil. Why was she doing this again? Oh, yes, Bellatrix Lestrange was also a brilliant, shiny walking tank of information that nobody else wanted to deal with. Right.

And suddenly, there she was. Wearing a straggly pair of black robes, her hair wild and unkempt, eyes dead. She shrunk into the sofa like a frightened animal, shivering. She was smaller than she loomed in Hermione's nightmares. Thin. Ragged. Small.

Defeated.

It was not so difficult to take her seat across from Lestrange, after all. She had the upper hand. _She may have tortured me, but I won in the end. I've been in that body. She's only human. _She's not quite sure if trying to convince herself of the latter is working, in spite of what she sees before her.

'Madame Lestrange, have they told you why I'm here to see you?'  
'No.' her voice was quiet, childlike, although no longer in that unsettling crazed way Hermione had heard so many times before. 'They don't tell me anything.'  
'Do you... remember me?'  
A whisper. 'Yes.' Violent shivers follow.

_I take it the Essence of Remorse worked, then. Good. _She has no interest in feeling bad for this woman, even if she dimly recognizes those shivers as the lingering effect of being tortured once too many rather than the shivers of guilt.  
Bellatrix seemed decidedly harmless now, so that was at least settled. It's really all she needed to know.  
Hermione muses that she has truly spent an extraordinary portion of her life being frightened of this rather feeble womans' cause. Her teenage years were spent in a perpetual state of being terrified for her life and the life of her friends. But things have changed around her, and she realizes that finally, she too truly has changed. She has fought, and fought again, and she has been victorious. This is the moment, Hermione thinks, she can stop being afraid. Death Eaters were only people, after all. Some of them powerful, yes, but she was more powerful now. The woman before her looked like she could be shattered easily, and she was supposed to be the most powerful of them all.

'Very well. I am simply here to assess you, which... well, I think I'm finished, actually. I assume they'll tell you in due course what the next step will be. You'll hear from me as well, I'm sure.'

Hermione gets up and starts to approach the woman sitting opposite her, but she catches herself in time. _I don't need to be polite. I don't need to shake her hand. She'll be given to me to do with as I please if I say the word. _She turned and walked away, not looking back.

_..._

_September 2, 2003 Tonks residence, outside Hailsham, East Sussex England_

'Could I... talk to you?'  
'Certainly.' Andromeda Tonks put down her grandson and followed Hermione into the garden, her emerald robes billowing lightly around her. The sun was shining brightly and while the warmth was welcome the September glare was not, so they took refuge under a tree. Sitting in the shade on a conjured bench, Andromeda leant back and cast a sideways glance at her visitor through the wild curls framing her elegant jawline, marking her so very obviously as the sister of a madwoman.

'So, what is it? Something the matter?'  
'Well, yes. Actually. Oh, this is difficult to ask... but, well -'  
'Is it my sister?' Andromeda interrupted shrewdly.

Hermione nodded shamefacedly to her shoes, uncertain if the subject was too painful for Andromeda.

'Kingsley told me you went to see her. I suspect I know what you're looking for, but I don't know that I have any answers for you.'  
'Tell me about her. Please. It would help to know what I am getting into should I say yes.'

Andromeda looked at her, clearly sizing her up.

'She was brilliant, as you know. Kind and funny and gentle once, too. An excellent sister. The two of us are only a year apart, and we've always looked so similar people thought we were twins growing up. We were always together, running around the grounds, zooming along on our toy broomsticks, you know the sort of thing. There weren't any other children around, really, but it didn't matter. She was wonderful. We bickered continuously from birth until I was 18, of course, but in a sisterly way. She was a judgmental cow at times, certainly, and she took the pureblood nonsense our parents spouted a bit more to heart than me, but still. She was lovely to me until the day I married Ted, however much she disapproved.'  
'She's just so different from what I thought she'd be. I was prepared to confront my worst nightmare again, and then she was just... someone else.'  
'I know. She tends to be... well, I hated my family for a long time, especially her. She's very intense and focused and it was very disconcerting to have her focus all her hatred on me. She was a right bitch when I left and I feared for my life and Ted's life for a long while. But the fact remains that Ted and I weren't killed off by Death Eaters through all those years, nor did they take much of a shot at Dora until the end. Narcissa wouldn't have, of course, but Bellatrix? I would have believed anything of her. But I am not a fool' Andromeda drew herself up and the glint in her eye marked her more clearly a Black than anything Hermione had seen of her before, 'Bellatrix does not miss unless she wants to miss. She had a clear shot at my daughter at least twice, and myself countless times. We wouldn't have been difficult for her to get to, especially before we got involved with the Order. And yet, here I sit.'  
'Here you sit.' she nodded.

It was all she could say. It seemed her way forward was clear.

_..._

_September 19, 2003: St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, London, England_

She had expected blood, gore, illness, death. Everything from the most grisly, to the truly touching or the absolutely maddening even, had all been duly expected. But when Hermione stepped through the door on the 5th floor she was confronted with Draco bloody Malfoy wearing full Healer robes and... well. She had not expected _that_ at all.

'Hello.' she tried uncertainly, and he looked up from the parchment floating in front of him. His eyebrows shot up and he stared at her, shellshocked.  
'I didn't know you were a Healer.' she continued, trying to stir him from his evident stupor.

He recovered slightly, now looking mostly startled.

'Well, I... I, well... I am.' he finished lamely, flushing red. 'I better be off.' he practically squeaks before dashing down the hall.

Hermione watched him go. She had known, of course, that he'd not been convicted of any crime and that he'd spent a very long time in a closed ward in St. Mungo's. She had not known that he'd never left.

Continuing down the rather deserted corridor she reached a locked door that demanded she hold out her badge for inspection. This must be the closed ward where she'd be learning Soul Healing, advanced memory charming and some Legilimency to boot.

Only ten minutes passed before she realized that Healer Malfoy works in this department.

_..._

_October 15 2003, St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, London_

'I often think how different things would have been without the first war hanging over Slytherin.' Draco sighs. 'We were all so weighed down by everything. We wanted to be on the right side of history, you know. To not be ashamed of ourselves or of our parents. We wanted them to be right so badly. If everyone had simply admitted they were wrong we could probably have avoided the second war altogether.'

_..._

_October 23, 2003, Ministry of Magic, London England_

'I do not truly understand what it is you want me to do! Is it really so important to keep her alive?'  
'Until we've got her full deposition, I'd say yes, it is.' Kingsley boomed, evidently annoyed.  
'Why can't she just stay with the Aurors, then?'  
'It's too big of a risk. We've not yet been able to keep any of them from cursing her left right and centre, and frankly I am at a loss for how a Healer would contain her. You've already got most of the needed training, you've got a position that enables us to easily hide Lestrange, and you've got the ethics not to kill or torture her. It's easiest if it's you. The less people involved, the less mess.'  
'It's not right, Kingsley. I've spent enough time dealing with the likes of her in my life.' she tries to throw it at him, hoping for guilt.  
'Oh, excuse me, Hermione, while I cry in a corner for you.' pipes up Andromeda. 'Some of us have been dealing with these people since the 1960s so perhaps you can just put on your patience cap and pipe down, can't you?'

A stunned silence followed. Andromeda blushed.

'So, I've taken after Ted's way of expressing himself a bit over the years...' she mumbled, the blush growing deeper. Finally, clearing her throat, she pressed on.  
'Anyway, the Department of Mysteries has quite a few questions for Be... Lestrange, as well. Some of the magic Voldemort used... well, we want to know about it. There is also the security question, and the Department of Mysteries has quite a strong record of keeping things secret that need to be, unlike the Auror department.'

_..._

_October 23, 2003, Portkey Main Office, Ashford Kent _

'Stop sulking, Hermione.' Ron grumbled as he circled several posts on a rather complicated map he had spread over his desk.  
'I'm not sulking! I just... I think it's bloody ridiculous, is all.'  
'Well, I've got enough on my mind, so give me a hand instead, alright?'  
'You're really doing it, then?'  
'Five dimensions, complete British grid, 50 stations.' he smiled broadly. 'Limerick to Hogsmeade 10 times a day! All approved.'  
'I never should have given you that physics text.' she smiles back.  
'Yeah, well, no more sodding apparition for me, at least.'  
'I've really gotten quite fond of apparition myself.' she confessed idly, taking a closer look at the map.  
'Well... I'm not saying it isn't a cool party trick or that it hasn't saved our lives, but it also nearly took my arm off, so now I don't have to use it, I don't want to.'

Flashing him a smile, Hermione crossed around the table to reach for a diagram.

'I hear you've got yourself a new girlfriend as well as a new job.'  
Ron snorted and rolled his eyes.

'I think you have to actually go out with somebody at least once before they're your girlfriend, Hermione. Bloody Ginny, don't listen to her!'  
'When's that particular social occasion taking place, then?'  
'Tomorrow, as a matter of fact.'  
'Who is it?'  
'Wouldn't you like to know?' he grinned before deadpanning. 'It's Pansy Parkinson. Is she a good kisser?'

She punched him in the shoulder and he grinned at her.

'Alright, alright!' he exclaimed, raising his hands above his elbows. 'I give up. It's actually Lisa Turpin.'  
She fell back to her seat.  
'The Ravenclaw girl?'  
'Well, yeah.' he replied, a bit sheepishly.  
'With the...?'  
'Indeed.' he grinned. She laughed.  
'Lisa Turpin with the gigantic tits is your date?'  
'She is indeed.'  
'Well, that's very exciting. Good for you, Ron.' she smiled at her friend, genuinely happy for him.

'I am fairly excited about it myself.' he paused, 'You know who you should ask about their love life, though, is Tonks. I hear she has got herself a new girlfriend.'  
'Really? Someone young and attractive and working in the Department of Mysteries, perhaps?'  
'So it's true! You're going out with her!'  
'I am not, but I have heard the rumours. She's actually going out with Angelina Johnson. I'm not sure where the mixup happened, but somehow everyone thinks it's me. Perhaps we should have some sort of tawdry affair, since everyone seems to think we are anyway. Might as well got something out of it.'  
'I can't believe she's into women. I always thought..'  
'That her marriage to Remus was strange and suspect and that they didn't seem to like each other very much? Come on, Ron! They're both as gay as a pair of rainbows on legs. At least they've both admitted as much now.'

Glancing at her watch she discovered the time had run quite later than she expected, and she burst forth to the apparition point 'Oh shit! I'm late to meet Luna and Harry! I'll see you later, Ron!' before disappearing.


	9. Interlude

**Disclaimer: Mr. H. Potter and the universe in which he resides belongs not to me, but to it's author J.K Rowling. **

**Interlude 2  
**

'_The terror caused by this new breakaway organization, the Death Eaters, appears to have had some blood purity-related motivation, although it also seems likely they were simply a gang of socially higher-up teenagers being pressured into a life of service for Lord Voldemort who simply intended to wreak havoc before disposing of them all. It seems clear now that Lord Voldemort never intended to fulfil any of his political promises to his followers and that likely, none of them were meant to survive the final stages of his ascendancy to power. The War Criminal Hearings in 1999 certainly revealed a brilliant campaign of Imperius and extortion as the usual method of drawing new members, as much as any lofty political promises.'_

_ Griselda Twiddleberk, 'Madman at the Door', Foreword_

**_All excerpts taken from 'Madman at the Door' by Griselda Twiddleberk_**

_ 'Slytherin is the Dark Wizard famed in Britain for co-founding Hogwarts and famed outside Britain as one of the fathers of wizarding isolationism and his unfortunate mental deterioration in his later years leading to some very odd magic indeed. He is also the founder of the house in which young Riddle was sorted.  
Slytherin House has, since the Statute of Secrecy at the latest, been split into distinct groupings of isolationists and wizarding supremacists who share an interest in Dark Magic, rather than purely the Dark isolationists we can deduce mr. Slytherin intended.  
Tom Riddle utilizes his knowledge of his ancestry (and his ignorance of the politics thereof, as he himself is quite the supremacist, not unlike the Gaunt men from whom he descends) and discovers Slytherins' hidden chamber underneath the castle, and sets loose the Basilisk hidden within which kills a fellow student in 1943. _

_This course of events marks the creation of mr. Riddle's first Horcrux and, as many have remarked, his functional departure from being strictly human. He is only 16.'_

_..._

_October 31, 1981, Lestrange House, London England_

They both wake abruptly from the pain in their left arm. Rodolphus pulls back the sleeve of his tunic, exposing a red and irritated wound, but no Dark Mark. Bellatrix stares at it, then pulls up her own sleeve. Have they been summarily thrown out of their Lord's inner circle? Just like that? With their lives intact?

Something is wrong. The wound festers, oozes like acidic potion, and rapidly distorts and heals, leaving behind a faint trace of the Mark. It is still there. This isn't a punishment, a prelude to death. Their Lord has gone. Something is very wrong indeed.

_..._

_ 'In the Spring of 1945 Tom Riddle's aforementioned Transfiguration teacher, professor Dumbledore, duels and defeats Gellert Grindelwald, leaving the European continental wizarding communities to reconstruct. This reconstruction is echoed in the Muggle world, where a massive global war has also just ended, leaving large pockets of territory to be seized for wizarding communities. In Britain, the opportunity is taken to finally reclaim properties lost in the hasty retreat into obscurity following the Statute of Secrecy. Given the rather strenuous security efforts already in effect in Wizarding Britain both before and during the Muggle war, the magical community there suffers very few losses from that conflict. Young Tom Riddle, however, must certainly have noticed something going on given his home in a Muggle London orphanage, a place likely to have been evacuated during this time. Stories of the genocide of anyone the Muggles deemed 'different' would certainly have made an impression on him, not least as he knows himself to be both different and unpopular amongst his Muggle peers.' _

_..._

_ 'When mr. Riddle returns to Britain in the late 1950's he begins gathering a terrorist organization, recruiting primarily amongst his old school friends and the Knights of Walpurgis, an isolationist order devoted to protecting wizards from Muggle terrorism. Mr. Riddle tries again to secure a teaching post at Hogwarts and is once again rebuffed, although we can now say it is likely he only interviews for the post in order to hide a Horcrux in the school and to curse the post to which he applied, setting the scene for several generations of British wizards with sub-par defensive magic._

_ This is also the time when mr. Riddle begins to be exclusively known by his chosen name of Lord Voldemort. His Horcruxes number at least 2, though likely already 5, and his appearance has undergone a drastic transformation. He devotes himself to Dark Arts research and builds a reputation as a political leader in the Knights of Walpurgis, causing a deep rift that splinters the organization.'_

_..._

_1966, Hogsmeade, Scotland_

Bellatrix snorted into her butterbeer.

'Come on, Evan. You know as well as I do that it's a complete joke.'  
'Well, it isn't ideal, but what is? You'll see, darling Bella, when you're older.'  
'I will not. They've completely failed us as students and there's really no excuse for that. You've wasted years in DADA without ever learning more than a few shoddy jinxes. It's useless. I'm not just young, I'm bloody factually correct.'  
'I've learnt more from the Knights, it's true.'

Evan paused to look out the window, striking a very solemn pose.

'But you're right, Bellatrix. It's a dangerous world out there. Someone has to teach us to defend ourselves.'  
'Too right. I don't want to be caught helpless when the muggles find us, that's for certain.'

...

_ 'When a wealthy pureblood child whose family is in good standing in society becomes first Slytherin Prefect, later a successful businessman and then board member of the Governors of Hogwarts, one does not tend to expect them to be a likely terrorist. In fact, it is difficult to understand why someone with such ready access to state power would seek violent means of destroying that state. However, this is indeed the case of one mr. Lucius Malfoy.' _

_..._

'_Of course, the addition of such a political animal was very useful for Voldemort at this stage, as he was attempting to build up a network of spies to infiltrate the Ministry of Magic, but Lucius Malfoy was never really in Voldemorts pocket. A man with his own ambitions, Lucius Malfoys handling of the precarious situation he found himself in turned ultimately deadly for Voldemort. Indeed, one might argue that Lucius Malfoy and the Black family were as instrumental in Voldemorts ultimate defeat as were Harry Potter or Albus Dumbledore, however their intentions.'_

_..._

'_When Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Black got engaged in 1973, the already sensitive situation became quite precarious for the Black family, which was already embroiled in its own internal intrigue.' _

...

_1996 Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire England_

'Mother left the country, Bellatrix. Do you not remember that?' Narcissa looked down at her sister.

Confusion bled into Bellatrix's features.

'I... I don't remember very much from... well, before.'  
'It doesn't matter. She has refused to see you.'

Bellatrix reacted the only way she reacted to anything those days. She screamed.

_..._

_ 'The Black family succession is recorded by a magical tapestry in the family headquarters in London. When Voldemort was gathering his army, there were only two direct families left, and they had the bare minimum of children: Cygnus and Druella Black had three daughters and Orion and Walburga Black had two sons. Orion and Walburga occupied the family headquarters with Pollux Black, Walburgas' father and previous head of the family and their remaining son.' _

_..._

'_When the engagement was announced in 1973, Mr. Malfoy was already suspected of being involved in quite some nasty business, and of his guilt or innocence, Narcissa Black refused to speak. There went the political hopes of the youngest daughter, set firmly on a rather risky bet, although not one the Black family altogether disapproved of, had it not been for the rest of the situation.  
_

_Whilst Narcissa was now engaged to suspected Death Eater Lucius Malfoy, Andromeda had run off not long after graduation from Hogwarts to marry muggleborn Ted Tonks in 1971, giving birth to a daughter in 1972. Andromeda was thus out of the family as well as the succession.  
The eldest daughter of the House of Black had married childhood friend and possible second-generation Death Eater Rodolphus Lestrange shortly thereafter, and while perfectly respectable, her situation was a political dead-end as well._

_Sirius Black, the heir apparent, had been a Gryffindor, an all-round rebel, and had run away from home at age 15 and promptly joined Albus Dumbledore's guerilla group, the Order of the Phoenix. He was already out of the succession and the family.  
The last male heir, Regulus, went ahead and joined the Death Eaters in an apparent attempt at restoring the family name, a rather bizarre misstep. _

_When the sons of the House of Black both went in the wrong direction, Orion barricaded the house, made it Unplottable, and he and his wife Walburga went into hiding. The Dark Magic in the house eventually overtook them, and they both died rather prematurely, but not before getting word that their son Regulus was dead, likely at the hands of the organization he had joined. There goes the last heir, leaving only Bellatrix and Narcissa as possible heirs, should Sirius never return to the fold._

_To anyone outside the Black family, the situation might not look so dire, but to anyone inside it? They were supposed to be the most staunchly isolationist family in the wizarding world, and not one of the children had followed the family line, except one. _

_However, now that the apparent heir was Bellatrix Lestrange, her situation was really quite suspicious when looked at more closely.  
Bellatrix's mother, Druella Black, was born Druella Rosier. The Rosier family had also lost a son to the Death Eater movement, likely persuaded to avenge the defeat of Grindelwald, then being locked in. His name was Evan Rosier, and he had been a good friend to eldest daughter Bellatrix. Rodolphus's brother Rabastan was an openly sympathetic supremacist, and their father had certainly run with Voldemort in school (a boy Orion, Cygnus, Druella and Walburga all remembered from their time in school with Tom Riddle even if few others did). Things were not looking good, however much Bellatrix and Rodolphus seemingly distanced themselves from any active political involvement at this time. Then Lucius Malfoy was exposed as a certain Death Eater right around the time Narcissa announced her pregnancy in 1979, clinching the succession in favour of the Lestranges either way. _

_Then, of course, came 1981, changing everything._

_When Walburga Black died in 1985, the House of Black stood empty.'_

_..._

_June 1998_

'It isn't... well, it isn't going to work, is it?'  
'N-no, Ron. I don't think so.'

They both stared at their knees, letting the tension tighten and loosen on its own.

'Can't we just... not try so hard to make it that, then?'  
'Just let it be whatever it is, you mean?'  
'Yeah...' he looked distinctly sheepish.

Relief washed over her.

'We could be just friends again, but, you know, friends who get... carried away sometimes.' He looked somewhat stricken he'd even said it, and hastened to add, 'If you want.'

She laughed.

'I'd love to be friends and get carried away sometimes, Ron. People shouldn't get married just because it's expected.'

_..._

_ 'In the autumn of 1991, Lord Voldemort returned to Hogwarts, whilst Harry Potter began his schooling there. Since Voldemort had hidden at least one Horcrux in the castle, and another was now returning to that building, when he himself entered the castle, body or no body, Hogwarts contained a fairly large concentration of Voldemorts soul. The new proximity of Voldemort caused a lot of activity in the Horcruxes, but only one person had enough information to truly notice this. Former Death Eater Lucius Malfoy noticed a certain diary in his possession starting to draw his attention. He started noticing his Dark Mark reacting to proximity with said diary. He became,to put it mildly, very interested in any changes in wizarding Britain, especially as it concerned Harry Potter.'_

_..._

_ 'The explanations Headmaster Dumbledore gave the Board of Governors at the end of the year regarding the odd death of Professor Quirrel, the security breaches around the Philosopher's Stone in the school's possession, and the odd intuition of 11-year old Harry Potter to have gone after Quirrel, who was presumably trying to steal the Stone... well, Lucius Malfoy drew his own conclusions.' _

_...  
_

_ 'He made his deliberations with his wife. He was overheard by their abused house-elf, Dobby, who tried to warn and protect Harry Potter over the next several years until his death in 1997. It is clear now that Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy did not want to return to their Death Eater days, wherever their politics lay, but saw little choice if their Dark Lord returned. As such, they devised a plan to hedge their bets. Taking the opportunity as soon as it presented itself, they sent the diary off with an innocent bystander, 11-year old Ginny Weasley, and fortified their political ties with the Ministry. Should Voldemort return, the diary could be passed off as an attempt to bring him back faster, they reasoned, and if he never returned they'd just rid themselves of burdensome evidence. Of course, they didn't truly know what the diary was.' _

_..._

_ 'Little Ginny Weasley was a lonely, sheltered child who was taken in by the diary frightfully easily. She opened the Chamber of Secrets, Salazar Slytherins ancient lair underneath the castle where he had stashed, of all possible weapons against enemies to the school, a Basilisk. Harry Potter got in to the Chamber and killed the Basilisk, saving Ginny Weasleys life and Professor Dumbledore's career. _

_Lucius Malfoy had, if nothing else, succeeded in ridding himself of his last vestige of Death Eater-dom which the Ministry of Magic could discover. Over the next two years he crafted a careful political image, played up his supremacist leanings, and generally set himself up so as to not be completely discounted once Voldemort returned. It was a brilliant move: obviously Death Eater, obviously not Death Eater. Bet firmly hedged, indeed.'_

_..._

_'All signs pointed increasingly to a return. While Dumbledore spent the next years setting himself up friendly with anyone he suspected could be convinced to follow his orders, the situation became increasingly uncomfortable for all involved._

_ Voldemort secured a rather extraordinary feat in his magical arsenal in June 1995 when he created a new body. Most of the credit must of course be given to his servant, Peter Pettigrew, who actually did most of the magic. Peter Pettigrew was a turncoat who was lured into the Death Eater organization without any political goals, and he spent the rest of his life paying rather steeply for that mistake. Never considered a true Death Eater, but with no way to return to the other side. Forgiveness, in the end, seemed a stronger force within the Death Eaters than the Order of the Phoenix.' _

_..._

_ 'The biggest mysteries of the inner workings of the Death Eater organization still lies with Bellatrix Lestrange, who has not been capable or willing to offer much testimony or evidence post-war. She undoubtedly knows more than most, being the most senior Death Eater to survive the conflict.'_

* * *

_Reviews much appreciated! This is the final stretch before we get into the fun stuff :)_


	10. Part 2: Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: All of your copyrights are belong to you, not me, various copyright holders. This is all fun and games.**

**Chapter 10**

_October 19 2003_

The Isle of Poseidon was an entirely magical construction. Immensely complicated though it had been, the Ministry had called in every skilled wizard and witch they were able to find to transform a rock in the ocean into an island invisible to Muggles, a haven for the 800 witches and wizards it would eventually accommodate. It was a great accomplishment of international interest and as the project neared its' completion the greatest overachiever of them all, Hermione Granger, arrived to oversee the final adjustments. No Muggle technology would work here, and no Muggle would set foot here. Furthermore, as the place had only barely come into existence, Hermione was the first resident to actually move in, although she did so as part of a team from the Department of Mysteries. Once the final adjustments were made, however, she would be the only one to remain.

The move was done to test the safety of the project, and every Unspeakable spread out to their designated corner of the island. Hermione spent several days casting rather wild magic to see if it would take hold and generate any sort of disaster. She kept a journal of her mental state, and visited with a Healer who screened her for any number of magical disturbances.

After a two-week period it was determined that the island was safe, and that the project was successful. Magic similar to what had surrounded Hogwarts had been successfully replicated, keeping the magic on the island under control. After a rather fun party, which the Prophet photographed, everyone left.

Hermione then immediately set up a portal between the pre-determined entrance to the island and Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade station, a sort of Vanishing Cabinet adaption perfected by herself during her time in Australia. The Floo network was already in place in all of the islands homes, and apparition wards had been set up so that there would be no way to apparate here. The International Portkey Station would be moved from Ashford, where the main hub of the National branch would remain.

Portkey travel had become much more common since the war as the Ministry no longer tracked who was travelling (unless the travel was international) and had set up a network looking very much like a Muggle transit system (overseeing this project had been one Ronald Bilius Weasley and Hermione could not be prouder).

Hermione had called in a favour from the Minister and been afforded a separate portal that would only travel between her house on the island and the cottage she had purchased in the mainland countryside, a thoroughly muggle dwelling apart from her presence. She had become rather fond of emails and cellphones and record players during her time with her parents in Australia, and it was nice to have a place to keep them, where she could also retreat. In her island home she set up a two-way mirror to speak to her parents, and another for Harry and Ron. It made an odd sort of phone-room, though she had to admit she'd gotten really very fond of wizarding technology, as well.

She spent several days cataloguing and examining the spellwork, charms, curses, hexes, and not least the enchantments holding the island together. When she was finally satisfied she understood all of it, and had tested that it all worked, the final bit of blood magic was added so Hermione had control over the landmass itself. Now she was Hermione Granger, Ward Governor of Isle of Poseidon. Her office was already filled with meticulously organized records, permits, licenses, registries and a wall of spellbooks for troubleshooting. The library was, she lamented, woefully inadequate, but she would get to work on that soon enough.

_November 8 2003_

It took all of Hermione's strength not to throw up or pass out. She steadied herself on the doorpost, straining with everything she had to remain calm. _I'm in control, _she tried to assure herself amongst deep breaths.

Bellatrix Lestrange was standing in front of her in her usual black robes and black cloak. With her were two Aurors, both bearing grim expressions. Bellatrix was wearing a hopeful smile, but it faltered rather quickly.

'Right. Come in then.' Summoning all her strength Hermione beckoned everyone inside. With her back turned to the defeated witch she found her voice once more.  
'We've got the kitchen through there, living room here, toilet in there, and upstairs are three bedrooms and a bathroom. This whole house is through a barrier wall, so it's Unplottable and nobody can get in or out without my saying so. The fireplace is connected to the Floo network, but you are blocked from it. There is a portal in the entrance hall, so mind that. You are blocked from using it without me there either way, of course. The downstairs is where we have the potions lab, work room, two studies and the library and my office is through another barrier here. You won't be confined unless it is strictly necessary, per the Healer recommendations. There's a little garden patch outside that's warded so you can get outside.'

'This is an entirely magical community, then?'

'Oh, yes that reminds me. While the island is magical, I also have engagements on the mainland where I have a cottage in a small muggle village. There will be the occasional muggle guest, and as you will come with me when I need to stay there you'll simply be confined to your room at those times. Is that a problem?' Hermione raised her eyebrows, hoping to convey that the only acceptable answer to that question was 'no', both for the Auror department and for Bellatrix.

Bellatrix looked worried, but said nothing. Eventually she shook her head slightly.

'Right. So, we'll be commencing every morning after breakfast, probably at about 9. We will start with the Pensieve, then we will move on with the theoretical work and finally the practical of the magic after your deposition. Once we've gathered all the information you possess you will hopefully be cleared to move into the cottage we have set up for you behind the barrier where you'll remain forever and we'll never speak again except when I check you're still alive and such.'

Bellatrix blushed and looked at her feet. She was so easy now, so vulnerable and broken. Hermione knew it shouldn't, but it feels brilliant to finally wound her. The world belonged to Hermione now, and Bellatrix was nothing but a problem to be passed on to anyone willing to simply deal with her.

After showing Bellatrix her room Hermione bid the Aurors a good day and prepared tea in the sitting room. They might as well get started, although the Soul Healer from St. Mungos had warned her to proceed somewhat gently with the Death Eater. 'She's still a bit fragile after all that's happened.' Healer Bowden had warned her sternly.

Bellatrix reappeared shortly in impeccable clean black robes and sat herself down on the armchair furthest from Hermione without any prompting.

'You've found everything alright, then?' Hermione inquired, striving for a civil discourse now it was just the two of them and when Bellatrix nodded she pressed on.

'Right. Our first order of business is to sort out your mess before we even have time to sort you out. Isle of Poseidon will be the site of a new wizarding primary school, so we need to track down all magical children to offer them a place. I am going to be actively involved in this process seeing as these things are still a bit... delicate. I believe you might be of assistance with this. Hogwarts is re-opening on the old school grounds again officially now, so the Headmistress will also be involved.'  
'That hasn't been done yet?' Bellatrix seemed genuinely surprised. 'But you've completed school since.. well, since then, haven't you?'  
'I sat the exams independently before I started my Australian education, but that is neither here nor there. They've redone the whole system. Everything has been.. in flux until now.  
Now, this process will not require much from you, however any information you can provide would be... much appreciated. As I'm sure you're aware many of your, well, colleagues are deceased, so technical details are a bit light.'

Hermione surveyed the prisoner then, and Bellatrix looked frightened. _Bloody hell, another thing to deal with _Hermione grumbled in her own mind.

'Well, let's get upstairs and gather what we need,' she sighed, 'We've still got the other house to inspect and that's where we'll be staying for a bit. The wards on the island cannot be completed until we've figured out the situation with transporting children here every day and for that we need to know where they are and how many there are, so there's no use staying here where no one can reach us.'

_November 9 2003_

Hermione woke up early and got dressed for a jog around the neighbourhood. She had been finding that agility and endurance were good things to have physically as well as mentally even after the war was over. Besides, it got her out of the house and around her new neighbourhood in a perfectly inconspicuous way which was something she truly appreciated.  
Muggles on their way to work in their cars was a spectacle that struck her as oddly foreign after so many years submerged in the wizarding world. It was something perfectly ordinary that she would simply never do because she wasn't ordinary.

When she reached the cottage again, she hesitated to open the door, remembering the almost feral expression Bellatrix had had when she had eyed the barrier standing between her and the muggles the previous night. But after pushing the door open, she discovered that Bellatrix must still be asleep, much to her relief. The noises coming from the Death Eaters' bedroom all bloody night had made it perfectly clear to Hermione that she was not the only one still haunted by nightmares of wars past and she was still a but unnerved by that discovery.  
After quietly locking the door she made her way upstairs, where she showered, got dressed, and then changed her mind entirely.  
Robes _are_ very comfortable, and they have been a staple of her wardrobe for a long time. However, this was the day for Muggle attire if ever there was one. Soon she would be having breakfast with sodding Bellatrix Lestrange, after all. In her Muggle cottage, with her Muggle clothes on and Bellatrix doesn't even have a wand. Ah, sweet justice. It is almost as good as Rita Skeeter in a jar. Almost.

When she entered the kitchen Bellatrix was already there. She was standing in her black robes looking bewildered and rather flustered, although striking a carefully neutral pose when Hermione entered. The older woman surveyed her, carefully. Hermione was triumphant. She had never been happier to be wearing a pair of Harry's dingy old trousers and a rather worn t-shirt with a decidedly Muggle print on it: Leonardo DiCaprio was staring seductively out at anyone she faced (Harry had found it rather amusing in 1997 to gift this to her remarking how she had 'a thing for pretty blondes, right?'). This morning however, it wasn't the pretty blonde that interested her. She'd chosen it because Leonardo did not, in any way whatsoever, move. The whole effect rather worked, however much she looked a mess: Bellatrix stared at the shirt looking a bit unnerved.

'Good morning.' Hermione raised her eyebrows sceptically.  
'To you, as well.' Bellatrix quickly retrieved her eyes to their previous target: the fridge.

Hermione started for the fridge and pulled it open, extracting bread and jam, as well as some milk. Bellatrix gave her a wide-eyed look.

'How does it work? It makes that sound, and well, I wasn't sure I could touch it... is it warded?'  
'It is a refrigerator, it keeps food cool. The sound is electricity, which is what it runs are no wards.'

It feels automatic, having explained these things to what feels like hundreds of people over the years. _Muggle artefacts and how they work: a guide by Hermione Granger_, she sighed to herself, making a mental note that it should actually be Ron who writes this guide. She'll owl him about it later, she decides. As she progressed through toasting her bread, making tea and finally sitting down to eat, Bellatrix remained standing in front of the refrigerator. Finally she draws herself up and opens it. Even as her face is obscured by spectacularly messy black hair she's sporting, it is clear that Bellatrix is wearing a look of confusion.

'Would you like something particular?' Hermione inquires, amused.  
Bellatrix's slightly hunched shoulders quickly straighten and she gives an overly dignified 'Perhaps I'll just have some tea.'. Hermione takes out her wand, summoning a tea pot and signalling for Bellatrix to sit down.

'I'll just get you some toast, then.'

Bellatrix's blush is a deep crimson and her mask of resentment is so childish it is almost charming. She knows she's been found out. Muggle packaging is just not that easy to understand your first time around.

...

After breakfast they both retreat to their rooms. Hermione changes her clothes to a somewhat more professional blouse and some tweed trousers, whilst Bellatrix reappears in the study without any discernible difference to her appearance.

Once settled in two squashy armchairs Hermione gets her Quick Quotes Quill out, and they begin to work.

'How did you find Muggleborns? The birth record never specified.'  
'There aren't that many to find.'  
'You must've had a way of tracking them.' she presses, indignant.  
'Certainly. But during the first war we did not try to seize the Ministry or Hogwarts and once we did Yaxley never had any trouble finding Muggleborns, so I don't know too much about the details. I would venture that blood status is kept on record at St. Mungos, and that the Ministry keeps a record of Muggleborns as they keep track of underage magic and Hogwarts keeps a record for obvious reasons as well.'

Hermione herself would never forget the day professor McGonagall visited her home to inform herself and her family that she was a witch. Hogwarts did indeed know her blood status before she'd ever entered the place. It sends a chill down her spine.

She'd chosen this topic of conversation not so much out of any real necessity, so much as simply to test Bellatrix's level of cooperation, as well as to see how antagonistic she would get. When it all goes rather well she sends an owl to Professor McGonagall setting up a meeting. Soon the real work will begin.

* * *

**A/N: So, here we are at part 2. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far, I appreciate it a lot. More reviews are also welcome :)**


	11. Part 2: Chapter 2

**A/N: I'm so busy. So busy! I apologize both for the delay of this chapter and the largely unedited form parts of it has, but at some point you have to just take what you've had time to prepare and put it out there. I hope you enjoy, and I do so appreciate reviews so if you have any thoughts to share, please do :)**

**Chapter 11**

_November 10, 2003 _

Headmistress of Hogwarts and Head of the Educational Reform committee Professor Minerva McGonagall was standing tall in Hermione's entrance hall staring at Bellatrix Lestrange, her lips razor thin and her nose scrunched quite beyond normal, her wand arm twitching. Bellatrix herself seemed to be flickering between the expression of a guilty child and a more haughty, arrogant pose.

'Bellatrix Black,' McGonagall thundered, causing Bellatrix to draw herself up to a more defiant height, jutting her chin forward and drawing her shoulders back. 'I've waited too long to tell you this: how dare you! How dare you!'

'I did what I believed to be right.' Bellatrix answered with an air of finality, as if it were an answer long considered and oft given.

'You've murdered good people! Believing isn't good enough!' snapped McGonagall, narrowing her eyes and sighing, 'You're a fool, Bellatrix. I said it to him, and I'll repeat it to you now: Tom Riddle was a single-minded ridiculous idiot. You were taken in by an idiot, Bellatrix. What does that make you?'

McGonagall had brought out her most icy tone, her shoulders drawing back proudly while her body leaned forward like a bird about to attack.

'An idealist, I suppose! Stop acting like my teacher, I'm not a child anymore! I've slit the throat of more powerful witches than you, you know!' Bellatrix howled back, collapsing instantly into a childish fit, stomping her feet and clenching her fists.

'Oh, please. You couldn't have bested me on a bad day. Go back to your room if you can't behave, will you, and let the grown-ups have their meeting.'

With that McGonagall strode past a speechless Hermione into the living room.

'Are you coming, miss Granger?' she boomed, and Hermione cast only a quick glance to Bellatrix before following her former teacher.

Bellatrix joined them almost immediately after, sheepish as could be. When McGonagall proceeded to raise her eyebrows at her, the dark witch did the most unexpected thing of all: she apologized.

'I've got some... problems with impulse control. I... I'm sorry, professor.'

Professor McGonagall said nothing, but settled into her chair and got out a scroll of parchment.

'Very well, then.' she declared to the parchment before looking up at Hermione. 'Now, miss Granger, I've checked the relevant records, and it seems there is a total of 253 Muggleborns of Hogwarts age for me to worry about and about 631 for you to to sort out. Of course, I'll gladly assist the teachers who will be speaking with them, but the transportation is quite another matter. What are your thoughts on the matter?'

'Oh yes, well I was thinking the best setup might be to have a school bus that travels via a portkey system. Ron, uh, I mean mr. Weasley, is working on it at the moment so it isn't quite complete yet, but I think it would minimise both the worry Muggle parents would feel and minimise risks of any children getting lost.'

'Yes, yes. I quite agree. I have with me some documentation of the wards protecting the Hogwarts Express and the wards that allow it to pass through the Hogsmeade protective enchantments actually, that I believe would be of assistance to mr. Weasley and yourself in this matter. What about the wizarding born?'

At this expression Bellatrix squirmed uncomfortably in her chair, causing McGonagall to snap her attention to the prisoner.

'Is there a problem?' she asked sternly.

'No.' Bellatrix responded with incredible petulance.

McGonagall merely stared for a few seconds before responding.

'Very well, then.'

The professor turned once again to Hermione. 'There are 506 wizarding born children whose parents need to be contacted. I think having them travel via Floo with their parents should be an option, as well as a designated Portkey rather than a bus service if the parents wish. That would minimise worry on that side of things, I think.'

'I quite agree. Do you have the transportation plans?'

...

When McGonagall had left, Hermione (rather reluctantly) decided to do her therapeutic duty and ask Bellatrix about the odd dynamic she had with Hermiones' former teacher.

'So... you and McGonagall? What's that about?'

'She's a nuisance and a pest and she was harassing me! Why didn't you step in, Granger? I thought you were responsible for my safety!'

'I have taken no vow to protect you from righteous anger and she wasn't going to hex you. Anyway, it just seemed so.. personal.'

'Personal? It's not personal!' the older woman burst before narrowing her eyes. 'Fine, it's personal. It's just rather difficult having her be so angry with me. I always admired her.' she deadpanned. 'I think I'm off to bed.'

Then she practically fled the scene. When Hermione glanced over to see it was merely 4 o'clock, she decided the subject was clearly one to be taken up later, at a less sensitive stage. She didn't really feel up to listening to Bellatrix wax poetic about her feelings just yet. She had two more meetings to be done with! Progress reports had to be made on all projects, after all.

_November 11, 2003_

After a quiet breakfast the two witches had settled in the sitting room. Hermione was in one chair, and Bellatrix another, not quite facing each other on opposite corners of the side of a walnut coffee table. Hermione had laughingly referred to the chairs they were sitting in as 'wizard chair, standard issue' when she had seen them for sale on an outing with Harry, and certainly the wing-backed chairs in deep green leather were about as ordinary as one could get in the wizarding world. It was all very appropriate seeing as her living room had floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with volumes of every size and colour imaginable. It was for the most part only muggle literature (of every sort and on every subject, of course) she kept in this house but the complete effect was still quite magical which was something Hermione rather liked about it.

'I met with... the Department Head, uh...after you went to bed yesterday.' Hermione started. She stared at the pale witch in front of her, trying to gauge her mood. 'Your trial... well, your deposition, really. Your testimony.' she stumbled trying to find the proper way to phrase the issue.

'We're moving forward with your... You've not yet been successfully depositioned. I need to start collecting memories from you so we can gather our information.'

Bellatrix gave her a hard stare.

'Well, that is simply too bad. I mean, these past few years have been very comfortable, truly, and I understand that this will eventually be necessary, but I don't need a wand for Occlumency and you can't make me show you my memories! I've decided I'm retired, this is my retirement, I wish to be left alone.'

'It's part of your Healing, as well, though. We'll go over the memories together.' Hermione tried to keep her voice gentle, as she had been instructed, but the insolence of the prisoner already had an edge creeping into her voice.

'Let's be honest here, Granger, considering our... history. They'll never let me stay in such comfortable conditions once they've so much as glanced at my recollections. So, they can't see them! I won't allow it!'

'They won't see most of it.' Hermione slowly responded, blinking.

'I'm an Unspeakable, the records of my work are by their very nature secret and I report the results to the Department of Mysteries. The Department will lend whatever they feel is appropriate to the Wizengamot for their War Crimes Hearing, yes, but you won't have a full trial. You don't need one seeing as you're already on a lifetime sentence. They just need your testimony. In our Department, on the other hand, we have quite a keen interest in what you remember about your master. And again, you're not finished with your Healing and your mind will start to.. slip again if it isn't addressed.'

'If it's Healing I need, then that is what I want. I demand a Healer! You're not fit to Heal so much as my cat!'

Feeling annoyed that the previously rather shy woman had decided to give up the pretence of being a reasonable human being, Hermione raised her eyebrows at her.

'Thank you for that ringing vote of confidence. I am certified to Heal everything that ails you, trust me. Healers do not, as a rule, hand over their patients memories so you'd only have to go through the process twice if you had a Healer. Besides, you're not royalty, Lestrange, you're a prisoner. You don't have a choice. Is this why you apologized yesterday?'

'I knew I should've come up with something more believable. Fine. I know my place, yes! I'm not stupid, Granger, I know how much worse it could be. I remember it well. But you will never know because you can't just take my memories!' Bellatrix hissed, shivering slightly but still leaning forward, fervently tapping the side her head with her right ring finger and baring her teeth.

'I can and if you force me to I will. Of course, it would leave you permanently incapacitated so you wouldn't be able to help interpret them... but I'm not above doing that anyway. I've my priorities and your memories are top.'

Hermione chooses her words slowly, carefully, making sure her voice is low and even. She looks directly at Bellatrix while she says it, watching as Bellatrix's expression falters.

'You wouldn't.' the dark woman challenges.

'I would. It's not as if you haven't done it to others, so I'm not sure I'd even feel a twinge of guilt over it.'

Bellatrix's face crumpled.

'Your boss wouldn't allow it.' she whispered.

'You've guessed who my boss is, haven't you? I wouldn't wager that she wouldn't.'

A final slump of shoulders and Hermione has won.

Hermione got out of her chair and headed for a drawer in a corner cabinet, carrying back a Pensieve and a series of vials, setting them on the table and searching out her notebook where she'd already sketched out how this all was supposed to go.

'I thought you had to finish your other projects first.' Bellatrix said evenly, eyeing the bottles as if they would bite her at any moment.

'We're waiting for the wards to go up. Might as well keep busy. There's been a slight change in schedule as I've observed no reason why you wouldn't be able to have some memories extracted, and the Department wishes to speed things up a bit.' Hermione replies.

'Don't I need some Healing before you can just plunge into my memory?! I'm unbalanced, you know!'

The words hung in the air until Hermione burst out laughing, a deep belly laugh that had her bent over struggling for air.

'Unbalanced! Unbalanced!' she gasped, drying her eyes, and taking a deep breath. 'Wow, unbalanced... Oh, I think it'll be fine. Wow, I mean...we'll start slow, alright?'

'I'm not sure I can handle it right now. I'm too hungry. I'll collapse.' If Bellatrix could do wandless magic, Hermione likely would be dead judging by the look the dark witch was throwing her way.

'We just ate!' Hermione responded, tears still bursting in her eyes, her gums aching with the effort of suppressing a grin.

'I'm still hungry!' was the petulant response.

'Look, I will get you some food if you need but you are not getting away. The Department really wants to move things along so they can use the information for the things they want them for and I'd rather move things along too, to be honest.'

'I demand food first!'

Hermione marched into the kitchen and heated her subject a microwavable fish pie which Bellatrix declared to be 'absolutely revolting' upon sight before settling in to eat it.

'Muggle food has so far done nothing to convince me of their supposed noble nature, Granger.' she grumbled when Hermione asked if she'd liked it. Hermione simply instructed her subject to follow her into her study where everything had already been set up for this (a magic free environment being rather ideal for the treatment had led Hermione to conclude long ago that this was to be the location of the extraction and prepared accordingly in her interior design choices), Bellatrix marching ahead without offering to help Hermione carry the vials and the Pensieve.

Hermione placed Bellatrix on a reclining chair, seating herself behind her left shoulder on a kitchen chair with a small table at her side with vials and Pensieve neatly lined up.

'I know this is a bit different from how your regular Healing has gone, but just go with it, alright?' she tries to reassure herself and Bellatrix, but the dark woman gives no response.

'Alright. So, relax as much as you can. Let your mind wander a bit, try to get in touch with some pleasant feelings, focus on something not too far into the past first. It's just something to get us started so I can start mapping out some things, you know... it doesn't have to be something important.'

She holds the tip of her wand to Bellatrix's left temple, her wand arm trembling slightly. She whispers 'Legilimens' without any sound beyond the loud echo it resounds in her mind as she reaches forward into a place she'd never wanted to go: Bellatrix Lestranges mind. She searches through the chaos of emotions to find something happy, but there is mostly anxiety coursing through her subject right now. She grabs a hold of something vaguely pleasing and retreats, dragging the memory with her and finally placing it in the Pensieve.

Bellatrix slumps in the chair, looking away as if violated. Hermione glances at the memory stirring to life in the silvery surface of the Pensieve. She sees Draco, younger and much healthier looking, and Bellatrix, who appears as some sort of animated corpse, in a rather posh study. Seeing both the old Bellatrix of the war years, and the now much healthier looking woman who is turning slightly so she, too, can view the memory, Hermione is struck with the difference between them. One is a bag of bones set in a frame of chaotic black hair and the other is more of an exquisite ivory carving set in... well, chaotic black hair.

Snapping her attention away from Bellatrix, she focuses on the memory that is projecting from the Pensieve.

...

_July 1996 Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire England_

'Concentrate, Draco. Close your mind.'

'I'm trying! It... it's painful.'

'Of course it is! I am assaulting your sodding mind, Draco!' A woman, gaunt and yellowing, shot up angrily from her seat across from a blonde boy and began pacing furiously.

'Occlumency is a skill you can only learn by mastering your emotions, steeling yourself. I will aggravate you as much as I can in any way I can, and your sole defence is to _not rise to my bait_. Do not let me taunt you into an emotion of any kind! Do not let me flatter you or anger you or anything else! Separate all of your feelings, choose one that is neutral to hold on to. Empty your mind. Master yourself' she instructs him. She turns suddenly and points her wand directly at his face.

'Legilimens.' she croons.

...

Hermione looks away and catches only a glimpse of Bellatrix's expression of triumph as Draco pushes her out of his mind.

Hermione quickly copies the memory and puts the copy into her own mind as instructed, before letting the memory course through her mind, allowing her a very different perspective.

...

He is doing well, much better than she expected if she's honest. He fights her at every turn. After a brief respite he squares his shoulders and looks at her directly again with a determined look on his face, every time. It makes her proud.

His memories are dull, like flipping through someone's History of Magic notes. There is his mother's endless doting and fierce manipulations. His father, whom Bellatrix could easily live for the rest of her days seeing no more of. His idiotic Hogwarts cronies. Of course, Snape and bloody Skeeter (who may have shared a dormitory with Bellatrix, but has only ever been close with Narcissa socially) pop up. There is the Potter boy and the Granger girl too often. They seem to aggravate him, so she pulls those memories out. Granger is disconcerting, indignant expression and stolen knowledge permanently plastered on her face and an air of authority and certainty that she has yet to realize will become very attractive when she is older.

Potter is an idiot, of course. She knew he would be, she did meet his father. She wonders briefly if the Dark Lord knows what she knows about Severus and the boy's mother. Severus does not know that she knows, but she taught him, too. And she is very skilled, after all. Skilled enough that not even Severus can tell anyone who exactly trained him.

Draco has some fantasies about a particular wizard, she notices. She vaguely remembers a witch she liked once, and decides not to reveal to him what she knows. It is private, she decides. She taunts and mocks him for most of the other things she finds, ruthlessly. He does not notice that she leaves this peculiarity alone. It isn't a very unusual proclivity, after all. _Could be much worse. Could be centaurs. _she thinks.

She notices his dislike for violence, his disgust for his inferiors borne out of fear. She sees how afraid he is, how afraid he has always been. She sees his longing for Lucius' approval. It is clear to her that Draco has no real understanding of the world her Lord is trying to create. Of course, it seems her Lord has forgotten it, too. That idle thought sends a burn from her Mark towards her heart. She reminds herself forcibly that she adores her Lord.

When the lesson ends she knows her nephew very well indeed. It is a privilege she knows she will abuse, for her need to lash out and unload some of her pain on others seems to grow stronger every day and as she watches the boy leave she felt a twinge of guilt that his days will be filled with fear. It is only a twinge, but it gives her hope. _Perhaps there is something salvageable left of me in this shell after all, _she muses. It feels like an unparalleled triumph rising swiftly through her chest. Azkaban took almost everything, but only almost. It did not take this.

...

Hermione holds her wand to her head and extracts the memory, putting it in a vial which she marks for Bellatrix's Healing records before flinging herself into the more comfortable chair waiting for her.

The memory had been mundane and not really very unexpected, but this first-hand account had certainly been a bit more than she'd bargained for. Bellatrix's emotions were raw and painful and very different from her own, a sort of echo-chamber of feeling, really. She grabbed a pepper-up potion from her jeans pocket and downed it in one. She'd never actually done this with the memories of someone in need of healing before, and if there was one thing clear to her in that emotional landscape it was that something was indeed very wrong with the person harbouring it.

'Well, that's a good start, I suppose.' she pronounces, having finally caught her breath.

'What, you've found a war crime already?' Bellatrix's voice sounds raw and angry. 'Well, I've cooperated. When do I get to have visitors?'

Hermione stares at the witch, flabbergasted, before making a decision.

'You never really stop trying to turn things to your advantage, do you?'

Bellatrix merely raises her eyebrows, a vein in her forehead pulsing. Hermione takes a deep breath.

'Soon. Let's call it a gesture of good faith for your cooperation. Who do you want a visit from?'

'My sister.'

Not unexpected, of course.

'I can arrange that.'

Bellatrix throws herself out of her chair and storms out, slamming the door behind her and shouting 'Well, I'll be waiting!', leaving Hermione to sort through what has happened.

The Floo call to arrange the visit from Narcissa (which is agreed upon by all to take place two months from now after Hermione confesses that she has already extracted important information from Bellatrix) turns out to take no time at all, and she gets gets in her notes both on the information extracted (Bellatrix knew about Lily and no one else knew she did. Clearly the woman has good information) and a good start on mapping Bellatrix's mind for the Healing plan. She'll need only a few more excursions before she can do a full extraction, she thinks, before glancing at the time. The spellwork is almost complete on the island. Thankfully her moody prisoner is sulking in her bedroom for the meeting.

Sneaking into the hall to meet up with herself goes without a hitch, and she's gotten quite a lot done today. Taking the time to feel out exactly how tired or not she is, she decides to press forward with her original schedule (thank Merlin for Pepper-Up Potions) and bounces up the stairs.

'BELLATRIX?' she shouts from the landing. 'ARE YOU READY TO CONTINUE?'

As Bellatrix stomps out of her room Hermione deduces she must indeed be and beckons her to come into the study again.

'Well done, that memory was very helpful.' she smiles. 'I've arranged for your visitor to come in two months if you've made enough progress.'

'Co-operate or else you can't have nice things, is it?' Bellatrix snorts. 'That isn't very polite.'

'Neither are you.' Hermione grins and while it might be just a trick of the light she imagines Bellatrixs' mouth twitches at the edges at that.

'Besides, if we manage to get your deposition finished by then she can visit you in your very own house.'

Bellatrix snorts and spits out 'Let's get on with it, then, shall we?' before reclining in her chair.

'Alright, so... something early this time, alright? Focus on childhood if you can.'

This time she pulls out a memory that is somewhat fractured, and she attempts another three extractions before finally getting a memory. By that time they're both too exhausted for much more and Hermione pops out and gets some takeaway for dinner before they both end up turning in.

_November 12, 2003_

After her usual run Hermione met Bellatrix in the kitchen. The older witch immediately pinned Hermione with a determined look when she entered.

'Do you even know how to cook with magic?'

'Of course I do!' Hermione blushed. 'I'm just not very good at it.' she admitted.

'Well, the thing is, Granger, that your food selection has so far made Azkaban and my previous arrangements all look like gourmet restaurants. While that is to be expected when the cook in charge is someone such as yourself, I suppose, the matter at hand is that I'm not terrible at cooking breakfast and am also very hungry. Would you please let me show you how it is done so I can get through the day without feeling like I'm going to upend to contents of my stomach for once?' she quickly holds up her hand with palms open toward Hermione. 'I won't try to use any magic, I'd merely instruct you.' she promises.

'Do we have what we need?' Hermione inquires.

When Bellatrix confirms, Hermione agrees to be taught the art of breakfast. Soon eggs, bacon, sausages, beans, tomatoes and potatoes are all sizzling happily in their respective pots and pans, and Hermione's wand techniques have been carefully and diplomatically adjusted by Bellatrix. Several times Bellatrix almost touches her arm, making Hermione suddenly quite aware again of how awkward this all is. They never touch each other if they can help it, and Bellatrix ends up merely hovering an inch over her elbow every time or watching her carefully from a few feet away.

Breakfast is, thankfully, excellent, making it all worth it.

'I didn't think you would know how to cook.' Hermione observes as she tucks in to a perfectly cooked sausage.

'No one ever thinks I know how to cook, and they are correct in the main. But breakfast is always good to know. Sometimes I travel.' Bellatrix states simply, glancing carefully at Hermione's newspaper, that mornings Guardian with no moving pictures.

'So it's not beneath you, then?' Hermione grins. 'Thought you had slaves for that sort of thing even when travelling.'

'Right.' Bellatrix sends her an icy look and dives headfirst back into her breakfast.

Once they're finished the dishwasher stacks itself and they head to the study to review an early memory. It turns out to be a simple one in which two small children, nearly identical, are fighting before one of them has a little rain-cloud set over her head. The child wails loudly and the other sees her moment to punch her adversary in the stomach before hurtling off when an invisible shield burns her hand. Bellatrix is left sopping wet and Andromeda is rubbing her hand miserably when their mother comes in and admonishes them. It's all very ordinary, and Hermione is very pleased. She indexes the memory and continues building her model for use in the full extraction after visiting the hurt feelings of child Bellatrix.


	12. Part 2: Chapter 3

**Chapter 12**

_November 20, 2003_

'So, in a couple of days we can finally move onto the island. Everything's been set up.' Hermione declared at breakfast, a meal that had become a bit of a favourite since her cooking lesson.

'I thought wards needed setting up and such...You don't actually do any of the warding, then? I don't know why they've bothered hiring you for anything, Granger, if all you do is sit around staring at my memories whilst others do the magic.' Bellatrix stirred her beans together carelessly.

'Oh, I did the wards already-' Hermione began before catching herself. 'You know, I do get things done here and there when you're not demanding my attention.'

'Right. Here and there, warding the entirety of that island. I'll just continue thinking you're lazy and incompetent and they had to send in someone else, then.' Bellatrix grinned cheerfully as she rested a playful gaze on her warden.

They both let out a chuckle before they began to clear up their breakfast. It had turned out to be a bad idea to enchant the washing machine to stack itself as it had ceased to function and they had had to start doing everything but the cooking by hand to avoid further complications.

Upon entering the study on the tenth day in a row, Hermione caught Bellatrix's expression of unease.

'How are you holding up?' she inquired, instinctively taking in every movement of the pale woman she was assigned to keep safe.

Bellatrix frowned deeply and drew her shoulders back.

'I'm fine, Granger.' she spat. 'I'm not a delicate flower. If I require any help I will, as you have experienced, let you know. Let's get on with it, shall we?'

She rolled her eyes dramatically as she sauntered across the room.

'Alright.' Hermione sighed, herself quite tired. 'Sit down, then.'

She had almost completed the mind-mapping, having collected memories from most corners of Bellatrix's mind. There was the surly teenaged Bellatrix arm-wrestling with Rodolphus and a mid-twenties Bellatrix having tea with Narcissa and Rita Skeeter, chatting about Narcissas' wish to enter into potioneering professionally, for instance, and a more recent Bellatrix arguing with Rodolphus over what to have for supper (Rodolphus had left Azkaban with a delicate stomach, it seemed).  
The memories had all been, in short, neutral or negative in feeling and decidedly mundane. This was of course to be expected after such a long stint in Azkaban, but still seemed rather sad, especially as these weren't the prominent features of Bellatrix's memory. Nothing important seemed to be left, however.

'I really want you to focus on something happy today. Like a Patronus-producing level event, you know?'

Bellatrix rolled her eyes again and sat up staring at her guard, eyebrows raised.

'You've been in here. You know I haven't got anything like that.'

'Not even close, though?'

'Not even close.' Bellatrix confirmed.

Stumped for a moment on how to guide Bellatrix through this particular hurdle, Hermione settled on the less than satisfactory 'Well, the best you've got will have to do.' and let the dark woman adjust again.

'Any time, Granger.' the woman warned, and Hermione forged ahead.

The memory she pulled out was taken from a completely new part of Bellatrix's mind, so in that regard it was, in Hermione's opinion, a success. It turned out to be a not particularly happy event however, as Bellatrix was simply howling and sobbing hysterically in it. She looked to be somewhere in her early twenties.

'What are you crying over?' Hermione asked before she even remembered it could be a sensitive question.

'No idea.' Bellatrix responded, and as she did seem genuinely baffled, Hermione let the questioning go, instead opting to insert the memory into her mind. She found only a throbbing feeling of hurt there, however, as Bellatrix's thoughts were too incoherent for any analysis.

Bracing herself for the next round she checked that the Pensieve and vials were ready, took a deep breath, and plunged into Bellatrix's mind with no prompt at all this time, grabbing a fairly neutral memory clearly far away from Bellatrix's consciousness, but not in the same recess of Bellatrix's mind as the earlier memory, her hope being that she could now complete the remainder of her map, being fully aware of where the gaps were.

When the memory began projecting from the Pensieve not even Bellatrix's look of astonishment at what had been unearthed could make Hermione look away. A woman with a long and messy black braid and intricately embroidered black robes was pacing back and forth in front of a fireplace, the flames casting shadows on her blotchy skin and fevered expression. A man with a rather waxy complexion and bloodshot eyes framed by impeccable black hair and sunken cheeks framed by an exquisite bone structure was watching the woman intently.  
Hermione knew beyond any shadow of a doubt that she was staring at, for the first time, a memory of a much younger Lord Voldemort. It had been inevitable, of course, but Hermione still found herself completely taken aback by this turn of events.  
Remembering in a jolt that there was someone else in the room, she pulled her eyes away from the people projecting out of her Pensieve. She needn't have, as Bellatrix seemed entirely as mesmerised by the display as she was. The dark woman leaned forward with her eyes wide as saucers and her jaw slack, staring at her younger master and her younger, more vivacious looking, self.  
Hermione returned her attention to the memory as Voldemort, with an unrecognisably human voice, began to speak.

_September 1977_

'Isn't it a bit crude? Sensory depravation, you call it?'

'My Lord, I realize it might seem a bit... well, Mugglish.' Bellatrix flashed her master a sheepish smile. 'I promise you, it is not. It is effective. Sensory depravation, then sensory overload. A dark, silent room for a week then bright flashing lights while someone shatters your kneecaps, for example. Knocks down any defence.'

'Is your Legilimency not up to scratch, Bellatrix?' He gathered his fingers and looked down on her even though she stood taller than he sat, disdain and humour seeping out of him in equal measure.

'My Lord, I assure you my Legilimency is quite excellent. After all, you taught me to perfect it yourself! These interrogation techniques aren't meant to make up for subpar Legilimency standards among the ranks. One might indeed find Legilimency to be an effective tool for breaking into someone's mind should they prove... reluctant to volunteer information. However, if one encounters a position where... well, someone might be a skilled Occlumens, or have some other form of protection against invasions of their mind and then what?' she eagerly tripped over her words, flushed with excitement. 'One might need to break in, ah... more forcefully. Legilimency is the easy answer, a whisper of Alohomora at the gates. But occasionally one might need to, just as with a house, do some damage to the structure itself in order to get past the defences. Magic could meddle with the mind in such cases, destroying the information. The equivalent of burning down the house if there's a memory charm or a Fidelius at work, so that is out of the question. However, sensory deprivation... Consider this an effective measure for when one needs to remove a wall, my Lord. It isn't always important that one leaves behind something... of structural integrity. So long as the house stands while you search it.' She grinned at her master.

He considered her, astonishment written across his face. The disdain had vanished entirely.

'My darling Bellatrix, I believe you might be correct.'

Bellatrix waved her wand, summoning a tightly bound man from an adjoining room.

'Oh, my Lord, don't trust just my words. Allow me a little demonstration.'

...

Hermione quickly waved her wand over the Pensieve to make the memory stop, leaving only a shattering silence.

Bellatrix stared at the Pensieve. Hermione stared at Bellatrix, the empty canvas of the woman's face reflecting the luminescence of the Pensieve and her pupils soaking in the dimness of the room to form pools of darkness. She seemed cut in marble in that moment, unfeeling and entirely artificial. Hermione felt as if she were looking at Bellatrix from one end of a very long and narrow tunnel.

The feeling of bile rising in Hermiones' throat forced her to act, quickly.

'Don't. Touch. Anything.' she ground out, as she made her way out and into the garden as quickly as she could. It was a bright autumn day and a sharp edge to the wind alerted her that the season was on the wane.

She leaned forward, grabbing both knees, breathing deep. She was trembling, and she felt her temples pounding. A jolt through her mid-section sent that morning's breakfast careening through her throat and onto the emerald lawn. She stood there, leant over the sick on the lawn, heaving.

The voice that cut through the autumn breeze then was entirely unwelcome.

'Get it together, Granger. That's only the beginning.' Bellatrix stated, standing in the doorway and looking rather uneasy.

Hermione didn't trust herself to say the right thing, so instead she clenched her teeth and stood up tall, turning to look her prisoner right in the eye. Bellatrix's expression as she stared back was indeterminable, but she eventually turned back into the house, evidently expecting Hermione to follow. Deciding (with some doubt) against burning the house down with Bellatrix in it, Hermione followed.

The dull luminescence of the memory still floating in the Pensieve mocked her as she entered the study. She quickly copied it and stored the vials, marking one decisively for the deposition. As for putting the memory into her own mind... well, it was simply out of the question. Taking another deep breath she summoned any remaining steadiness she had.

'That was a bit... unexpected. Let's just... continue, then. We don't have too much longer to go before I'll be able to map out the entirety of your memory and then I can build a model so we can Heal it of the... well, the damage incurred in Azkaban mainly.'

She still shook a bit, particularly her hands. Bellatrix stared at it, and then reached out her own shaking limb, placing it on top of Hermione's hand before she had time to pull away. Bellatrix's hand was cold and firm and unexpectedly heavy.

'Maybe we need some tea first.' she suggested.

'Don't you dare! Don't you fucking dare to be all empathetic about this!' Hermione screeched, drawing back violently from the other woman.

'It's a bleeding memory, Granger! I can't do anything else about it! It's not there to wound you personally, you know!'

'As if it matters! You have another one in there with the intent to wound me all over it! It's not as if they're not related, even! Sensory deprivation? You absolute monster, I can't believe you!'

Bellatrix looked quite stricken.

'I didn't intend... I didn't choose that memory on purpose.'

'Exactly how many people have you tortured, really? Is this just the first in an endless parade of similar memories?' Hermione accused. She felt her heart beat in her hands and her temple and somewhere in the back of her neck as her eyes levelled with Bellatrix. 'You know, never mind, never fucking mind. I need to rethink this, this whole thing. I've got to speak with the Department.' she turned and tried to leave, but Bellatrix flung herself in front of the door before she could.

'You can't speak with them! I can't go back, Granger, I just can't! They've taken everything, alright? Just let me... just let me give you my sodding memories so we don't have to do this anymore. Let's just get it over with, alright?'

'Let me out.' Hermione ground out. Bellatrix lingered only for a second before getting out of her way.

Hermione warded the door, locking Bellatrix in, before grabbing the telephone in the hallway. She stood there staring at the dreadful machine, uncertain. Who could she phone? Who could she tell? Ron didn't have a phone and neither did Harry. Neville was at Hogwarts, so he didn't have a phone, Ginny and Roger didn't have one... Tonks was a no go, too. It was useless. She called up Luna, whose Muggle boyfriend somehow had not caught on that she wasn't just 'alternative' and had gifted her a mobile phone.

After a brief conversation she returned, reluctantly, to the study yet again.

'I need to... we need to go over this.' she pointed to the bottle where the memory was contained. 'Sit down.'

Bellatrix looked briefly as though she might protest before plopping down carelessly on her chair.

'There are lots like it.' she said quietly. 'They're what I remember most clearly after St. Mungos had their way with me.'

'Well, I mean... I overreacted. I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me, I suppose all those other memories just had me forgetting for a moment... well, who I am dealing with.' Hermione answered, absently. It had been a mistake to react so violently. She needed Bellatrix to entrust her with the entirety of her memory and reactions like the one she'd had were not helpful.

'I think we've got the memories we need to in order to create a reconstruction. So I suggest we go for a full extraction tomorrow at the island. Which means we'll have to go over the details of what we have today so I can get everything sorted. I'll need to ask you some questions. Do you have the energy for that?'

Bellatrix nodded.

* * *

**A/N: **I've revised this story, though apart from some grammar changes, a scene deletion, and some slight detail changes, there's not that big a difference. Of course, as you may have noticed the chapter numbers has decreased and all the chapters are of a slightly more even length.

Reviews are much appreciated. I admit I'm a little bit sad that I get so few reviews.

Anyway, have a wonderful day, dear reader :)


	13. Part 2: Chapter 4

**Chapter 13**

_November 20, 2003_

After fetching some tea (because bugger it all, Bellatrix had been right about the stupid tea probably helping), Hermione had taken Bellatrix into the sitting room. They were sitting in the wing-backed chairs again, as if none of the last ten days had happened. This time Bellatrix was facing her, hunched over her own legs to more clearly see Hermione, the form of her limbs poking sharply out through the loose fabric of her robes, that feral quality she had prominently displayed in her unabashed stare. It was strange, the attention Hermione suddenly commanded from the woman, the power shifting between them so palpably. Bellatrix's eyes were huge and glassy as she gazed steadily at Hermione, the taught skin over her cheekbones signalling her apprehensiveness. It was unsettling. So Hermione cleared her throat.

'So.' she pronounced, before Bellatrix launched into her own speech, still intently staring at Hermione.

'I don't really remember much of my life, you know. Not even most of what you've found has been known to me and Merlin knows that's just scratching the surface. I fought for a cause all my life that I can barely remember, and now I've lost and so there isn't even that to live for. I'm in this stupid cage and I don't really see the point in going on. Life imprisonment is not likely to be a more pleasant prospect the second time around, and there is no chance of anyone coming to free me this time. But before I give up I want to know who I am again. I want myself back. I've had several years to think it over and that is really just all I want. I know that means a lot of pain and work and I am fully prepared that it will make anyone witnessing it along with me hate me. It isn't my intention to harm you, miss Granger, as you are my best chance at getting what I want and frankly you've been more pleasant to be around then all my caretakers the last 6 years combined. I would like myself back and as I've certainly lived to testify, the degree of pleasure one receives from life is not what makes it worthwhile. I am not afraid. I want my soul as whole as possible and my whole mind back and that is all I wish to take with me into my hopefully not too far off death. I require your assistance in this quest and I am sorry that it causes you such grief. I will not ask for forgiveness as I surely do not warrant it, but I do require your patience. It is my dying wish and seemingly the only public service I can still give. Please allow me this. Please.'

Hermione sat there, silent. Acutely aware that she should say something. Acutely aware that she had moved far enough along in her own life by now that she would require more therapy than anyone could possibly provide and suicidal confessions and pleas for mercy from her former torturer did not bode well for the future. Christ, how the mighty have fallen.

'Do you remember Azkaban at all?' she finally asked, her mind as ever several steps ahead, frantic to process, understand, make decisions and survive.

'Yes. I just feel it... it's difficult to describe. It's not quite a memory. But it is always there, a sort of presence more than a remembrance.'

Hermione sighed heavily.

'I think we should... we'll finish the mapping and then I will begin there with the full extraction. I believe unlocking those memories will bring back a lot of other things. Sort of how seeing that other memory had the effect that it... well, it set off related memories for me.' she cleared her throat. 'That's what I wanted to say. I mean... that's all.'

She gulped her tea, deciding Bellatrix was wrong. The probability had always been there, and was now confirmed. Tea was not helpful after all.  
She sighed heavily, silently bemoaning the fates and their hand in landing her here.

'Onwards we roll, I suppose. We'll need to go over a few things regarding your perception of these memories.' she began, and they were off. It wasn't difficult. Bellatrix answered simply enough, and it was clear that truly a lot of her memories were missing. It didn't seem as if the Dementors had taken everything but the horrible ones as those memories seemed to have been crowded out by the remorse Bellatrix had been induced to feel since, which had failed to bring back any lost details and left only agonizing feeling over vague recollections of wrong-doing. What was left after all this meddling seemed to be just... dull. Of course, given Bellatrix's somewhat skewed vision of dull, most of it was still rather horrific. Between the Dementors and the Essence of Remorse, remembering almost anything caused the dark witch quite a bit of pain and usually set off her various nervous ailments and her Crucio-tremors.

'God, I hate those.' the dark witch lamented. The look of guilt that came upon her face then was really almost endearing to Hermione until she spoke her next few words. 'Do you have them?'

'Yes. And before you ask, yes, it was likely your doing. I've tried every stupid thing anyone's ever recommended, but nothing helps with them. The scars are horrifying, too, but the tremors are worse, really. It's just so bloody aggravating, the stupid pity it produces in everyone. Harry doesn't really have them, you know. Seems like he should, but I guess he wasn't ever tortured quite like that, was he? Every other way, sure, but not like that. Not for that long and with quite that much hatred.' she deadpans, catching herself hoping for guilt from the other witch.

Bellatrix merely looked pensive. 'I suppose... well, I think the damage could have gone out of him either way, couldn't it? With... with him, I mean.'

Hermione hadn't really considered that. 'I suppose, yeah.'

After exhausting themselves with questions they tidied everything they needed before retreating upstairs where they found their beds, and their sleep, very fast indeed.

_November 21, 2003_

It was a windy, cold morning. The glow of the fireplace was almost entirely negated by the damp air permeating the sitting room. For once Hermione shivered from the weather. With their heavy travelling cloaks firmly in place, Hermione and Bellatrix stepped through the portal that landed them in Hermione's island home. Hermione offered blood to the door leading out of the portal room and into the house (Bellatrix seemed shocked but pleased at this), then exited and were, at last, home.

Once safely ensconced inside she cast several warming charms, lit up the oven to boil water and the fireplace for continued warmth. She'd set everything ready, and she sent the luggage where it belonged before removing her cloak and shoes and planting herself in the kitchen with Bellatrix for some tea. The impending full extraction was weighing heavily on her, leaving her unable to get properly warmed up – the aim was to get to Azkaban today, to perhaps begin to repair the damage of those years. It was likely to put Bellatrix in quite a state. The prospect of such a grim undertaking was not spurring either of the witches on. Hermione'd thought it over and decided that this was certainly the best course of action, but the gloom weighing on her mind was simply less conducive to a successful venture today. She needed a break.

'Bellatrix?' she asked idly, deciding to simply be honest.

'Hm?' Bellatrix's expression stirred from it's serious examination of her teaspoon.

'I think I will go out for a bit... to get us some food. Is that alright?' Okay, so... sort of honest.

'Do you need my permission?' the witch raised her eyebrow in amusement.

'Well... no. I suppose I don't. So, I'll see you in an hour or so. I'm sealing the house.'

Already back to her ongoing teaspoon-examination Bellatrix merely waved a hand airily at her. Breaking the rules was nothing to her, Hermione supposed. She wouldn't be surprised if the existence of such things were among what the dark witch had simply forgotten all about. Perhaps Hermione could have simply scheduled things more... straightforwardly this whole time? Deciding such second-guessing was fruitless she pushed the thought away and continued down the corridor, casting her wards and hexes, sealing the house.

Hermione's hands trembled as she closed the door and entered the portal, exited and apparated. She landed decisively and immediately began her short walk to her destination. After going through the Leaky Cauldron with her hood all the way up, she exited onto the rather shabby part of muggle London housing the barrier between the magic and muggle worlds. Next to the Leaky Cauldron, comprising a new border stop between the worlds, was a bakery painted in a bright lavender with flowery lettering reading NEW MOON BAKERY; BEWITCHING DELIGHTS AND SPECIALTY BAKEWARE. The smell wafting out when she entered was warm and sweet with notes of cinnamon. A flash of red hair greeted her behind the counter.

'Hermione!' Ginny grinned. 'I didn't know you were coming today! It's lovely to see you.' her hands leant on the straps of her white apron. 'By yourself, are you?'

Hermione grinned back, allowing the heady air to envelop her in a safe feeling, encouraging her to relax her shoulders for the first time since the beginning of this nightmare. 'Good to see you, Gin. Yes, it's just me today, I'm afraid. Off-season work?'

'Well, I've got to look after my investment or else I'm afraid my partner will burn it to the ground, and the Nachtkrapps don't take that much practice time over the winter, so keeping busy is key. Besides' she looked nervously around 'I think it might be good to have someone a bit more grounded here, every now and again. It can get a bit eccentric 'round these parts, if you know what I mean.' she winked.

As if on cue Luna drifted out of the back kitchen holding a tray of rainbow-coloured baked goods of some sort, complete with a bright yellow apron over sun-coloured robes, her blonde hair tied in a messy bun barely contained under her orange hairnet.

'Hi, Luna.' Hermione offered, hoping her eyes were not actually watering at the blinding sight of the younger witch.

'Oh, hello! How truly delightful to see you! Would you like a crème-filled rainbow-bun?' she asked, offering a glorious smile as she set down the tray on a counter. The buns seemed to shift between geometric shapes of their own accord.

'Are those quite as they, uh.. should be, Luna?' she furrowed her brow at the magical-looking pastries.

'Oh, yes, I know what you mean, but it's magic day today!' Luna announced happily. 'We've got plimpy pie, if you'd rather?' she twirled once around before offering herself a sort of embrace with both arms in seeming elated joy. 'The sun is beautiful today – I'll set us up with some tea in the garden. You can stay for a bit, yeah? The daisies are blooming!' and she promptly waltzed back out the door, waving her hands happily and humming something that sounded like 'The funky troll', a recent Weird Sisters hit Hermione personally hadn't taken to much due to what she perceived to be excessive use of bagpipes.

Utterly non-plussed by the witch's behaviour Hermione simply raised her eyebrows at Ginny. 'We're all in agreement it's November, right?'

'We've got a charmed garden on the magical side now.' Ginny shrugged. 'And it is quite lovely out there today.'

'Oh. Alright then. And magic day?'

'We set muggle-repelling charms two times a week so we can do specialty goods and the Cauldron can have some rest times for through traffic. It's really very nice – lots of families come in. All Luna's idea, of course.'

'That's really nice of her. As usual, I suppose, but I still swear that woman is at least part Disney princess. Only reason she gets away with being so bonkers.' Hermione shook her head.

'Oh, hush, she's lovely.' Ginny gave the door a fond smile before furrowing her eyebrows. 'But a bit bonkers, yeah.'

Ginny grabbed several different pastries and some sandwiches on a tray before beckoning Hermione to follow through an arched entrance leading to a corridor separating a cozy area with squashy armchairs and sofas and mismatched tables and a bright lime-green door at the end.

'How's work? Is that horrid bitch giving you trouble?'

Hermione felt a slight blush creep up on her. 'That obvious why I'm here?'

'First time you've ever been here without your parents, so yes, I'd say so. If you accidentally murdered her, I'm not sure anyone would object too loudly, you know.' Ginny tilted her head thoughtfully, considering the door-handle and her tray before chancing to hold the tray in one hand and opening the door with the other, 'I can't thank Tonks enough for this door, really. Impossible for muggles to enter, they just see the corridor turn left and continue on to our muggle bathrooms. Brilliant.'

Hermione nodded and followed. 'I just need a bit of a break, I think. Murder still seems a bit extreme for the circumstances, though Luna had to practically walk me back off the murder-ledge the other day.'

'How long have you been doing your projects now? With the island and everything, it must have been months!'

'I'm not allowed to talk about that.' Hermione smiled, silently thankful that Ginny has no idea what she could discover if she thinks more deeply on it. 'But I have been quite busy, yes, and since Harry appears to have a direct line of communication with some sort of Ministry oracle – well, I'm guessing you know some of what I've been up to.'

Ginny shook her head, grinning as she lead them out of the corridor and into a lovely garden with a domed ceiling giving every illusion of the sky on a warm sunny day. 'If they only knew how his little group of confidantes are told every snippet they give him, he'd never be told anything ever again. He is absolutely incapable of keeping things quiet however sneaky he thinks he is. Sings like a bird whenever prompted, that man. I can't believe they considered letting him be an Auror.' Ginny snorted, 'You're not gonna tell on him, are you?'

'What, and miss being in the information elite? No, thank you.' Hermione grinned back, heading for the little table laden with tea, coffee and sweets where Luna was practically hopping with contentment in her seat.

'Isn't it lovely?' she drawled and Hermione immediately agreed it was.

'You know, David says that interviewing mass murderers and war criminals is a job for psychiatrists. Are you the magical equivalent of a psychiatrist, Hermione?' the blonde asked placidly.

'No, but I'll be needing the services of one soon, I expect. Did you tell him I'm doing that?'

'No, I hypothesized, of course. It's good to learn about the muggles, you know, but I learnt to keep secrets as well as anyone in the DA. Sometimes I suspect you have too little faith in me.' Luna grinned broadly. If it were anyone else it might have been disturbing, but Luna looked as innocent as ever.

Hermione rolled her eyes. Luna was a clever woman, she knew that. Just very eccentric. She'd learned to keep her theories to a minimum now, as these things could not be discussed in front of David. While Hermione had had serious concerns about Luna dating a muggle, it had really turned the blonde down to a much more tolerable volume, in her opinion, by honing her social skills considerably.

'It's the three of them, I've always said it, haven't I? They think everyone else is an idiot.' Ginny sipped her tea, giving a conspiratorial shake of the head to Luna.

'I'm sorry, Ginny, really.' she leaned over, in instant turmoil, and put her hand on Ginnys and squeezed. 'Really.' she assured again, for what must the thousandth time. She still meant it.

'I know Hermione. It's fine. We are not having that conversation again.' Ginny shooed her hand away, annoyed before straightening up and brightening considerably. 'So, in the interest of providing you with relief from your grim daily duties we might discuss with you any number of recent events! Luna has a new article published, I am in the running for 'most valuable player' in the Bavarian professional leagues, Neville wrote me yesterday with news from Hogwarts and Harry bloody Potter announced to me that he'll be testifying in some new hearings starting Monday the subject of which will be, as far as I can tell, 'Dementors: yay or nay'! So, lots to cover.' Ginny snorted. 'By the way, has she tried to murder you yet or are you not allowed to say?'

Ginny's challenging eyes met hers, and Hermione swallowed. 'She hasn't, she's just a pest and nuisance. What about that hearing, though? What's that about?'

'I think it's Fudge trying to win votes by being a tit, as usual. Of course, it's common knowledge higher up that someone is in custody of LeDingbat and preparing for an inquisition and that those hearings will commence not too far into the future, so someone is making their move. The Daily Prophet will be making a huge racket about it, too, so it seems very promising that Fudge is behind it. Very juicy stuff. I would take out life insurance on Rita Skeeter if the security on the hearing is strict. I expect she'd gamble her life to get that scoop. Ron has got a betting pool set up, he's thinking it'll be Zacharias Smith behind all this.'

'So Fudge thinks promising Bellatrix a Kiss for her troubles will get him elected?'

'Seems like it.'

'How did I not know that? I spoke with the Minister just... recently! Why hasn't Harry told me?' Hermione burst, her consternation, she knew, written all over her face.

'It'll be your principled stance on the issue, I expect. Does it not colour how you'd present Lestrange if you know she might get a Kiss?'

'Of course it does.' Hermione looked down. 'Thank you for cheering me up, Ginny.' she grunted, and the redhead burst out laughing.

'You're welcome, of course, but that's only the beginning. Luna, why don't you explain about your new article?'

'Oh, yes!' Luna beamed. 'I've developed a technique for partial human-to-object transfiguration that would allow one to use their body parts as tools. Very useful for cooking on outdoor excursions. I'm being published in Transfiguration Today, tough it of course will not be today today. Not quite the most fitting title, is it?'

'That's wonderful news! Tell me everything.' Hermione burst, trying vainly to conceal the stab of jealousy she felt. Her research would never be published outside the Department, a fact she'd long since accepted. Still, a certain longing remained.

'Thank you, Hermione. You see, I was out searching for Blibbering Humdingers as they've become a recurring point of insult from people after that whole incident in the Great Hall. I don't mind, really, as I know they're quite as real as you and I are, but I have been assured by Ginny and Neville that people are being 'great big boils of vileness' about it. I thought the best way to remedy this was to capture a specimen for study, but I was foiled when they kept placing beautiful flowers in my way, completely distracting me. They're clever creatures, really.'

'What about the transfiguration?' Hermione interrupted.

'Well, as it was I had my collapsible cauldron with me but I had forgotten that I'd taken all my utensils out for cleaning before packing my tent last. It's one of those muggle tents, David gave it to me after I told him I loved camping, but I have to say the muggle experience is really quite different and I think they don't even use cauldrons as David was quite cross with me when I left mine in the tent... it's a bit confusing, this muggle business. Nothing can be left in the tent and you always need to cook outside and David simply insists we not bring any furniture apart from these very clever collapsible chairs he has. It is very heavy to carry everything and David insists I need water for cleaning my utensils. I've begun not cleaning without as I suspect the muggles do not have anything to replace a simple cleaning charm. I think I should write a book about my observations, you know, for anyone dating muggles.'

'That's a good idea, Luna. But what happened with the transfiguration?' Ginny remarked, bemused at Hermione's exasperated expression.

'Oh, yes. Well, so I had no utensils and after a while I decided to simply transfigure my arm into a wooden ladle so I could stir my stew. My stew turned out very well and it turns out my technique was quite unusual, so now it's being published.'

'That's very good news, Luna.' Hermione smiled, too dumbfounded to say anything else at this simple conclusion. This would be Luna's seventh published article. The woman was the consummate Ravenclaw in her way: always curious and always creatively engaged with the world around her. For Luna, negative results delighted as much as positive ones. This was what Hermione admired most about Luna, that willingness to eagerly engage with the answer regardless of whether it was the answer she'd hoped. Hermione always felt personally wounded when she turned out to be wrong, whilst Luna felt elated that the answer had been found and viewed it as a stepping stone to find out more.

'It's really really great.' Ginny agreed. 'And they've hired Neville at Hogwarts! He's a full professor and he's the Assistant Groundskeeper to boot. Very full course load already, from what he said.'

'About time, really. He's been there for ages!'

'Yeah, but he only published his tenth paper last month so it wasn't a sure thing until now. You know how he is, that man always proceeds with great caution.' Ginny paused a moment before going on. 'He's dating someone new, as well.'

The glint in Ginny's eyes told her immediately that this would be a sumptuous piece of gossip, and it caused Hermione to eagerly lean forward in spite of herself as the strain that existed between Ginny and her finally lifted. 'Really, who? Not back together with Parvati, is he?'

'Oh, no, nothing so pedestrian.' Ginny grinned. 'See, it's a secret but he had to tell me as I happen to work closely with this person. You know them very very well, by the way.'

'So, someone from your team?' Ginny nodded eagerly.

'If Neville's gone for a man, I'd be surprised.' she tested. Ginny grinned wider. 'So, it's a man? Good God, it's not Viktor, is it?'

'No, and no.' Ginny was almost hopping in her seat.

'Is it Erinyes?' Hermione tested, hoping again to be very wrong. Ginny's eyes glinted. 'It is, isn't it?' Hermione croaked.

'Oh, don't be sour about it.' Ginny exclaimed. 'It is indeed Erinyes Dalca, the Fury set to surpass me in the 'most valuable player' contest.'

'You are the absolute worst at cheering up, you know that?' Hermione remarked, feeling very sour indeed and not seeing the need to hide it however much Ginny couldn't have known this would annoy her. 'Besides, you're a better choice this season. She missed that idiot in the national game, where was he from?'

'France.' Ginny supplied.

'Yeah, that one. Courmier. Huge blunder.' she bit her lip angrily, hoping the subject would naturally change itself. 'It should be the player who has done no such stupid thing, in my opinion.'

'I've been thinking of setting up a sanctuary for wrackspurts over there,' Luna pointed to the far corner of the garden where a little Ash tree stood, 'it would make for a very relaxing atmosphere, wouldn't it?'

'How about some birds instead?' Hermione supplied in relief. 'I mean, what if someone is in the midst of an important train of thought when they wander into the wrackspurt area?'

'Phoenixes!' Luna exclaimed happily. 'Or perhaps blue tits!'

'Blue tits, definitely.' Ginny smiled.

'I should get going. Could I bother one of you to box up some pasties and cakes to bring home?' Hermione sighed, draining her teacup.

Luna grabbed her wand from behind her ear and waved it decisively. 'I'll follow you out, there might be customers.'

Two large boxes of food were waiting on the counter when they got out and Hermione thanked Luna profusely when the blonde refused payment and then left through the muggle-entrance and apparated from a little alley down the street to her muggle cottage from whence she stepped back through the portal to the island home. She drew a deep breath, offfered her blood, and stepped again back into her house.

Bellatrix was still in the kitchen, looking at her spoon. Hermione walked over and deposited the boxes on the counter, finding herself attempting to draw deep breaths, her heart hammering in her ears. This whole day was wrong wrong wrong.

'Did you know that I worked as a Curse Breaker for several years?' she found herself asking.

'Hm?' Bellatrix's eyes lifted to gaze at Hermione's ponytail.

'Sometimes, after a particularly difficult excursion, we'd have to take a few days. We'd let off steam in many... unsavoury ways, I suppose. But it was a lifeline for us. It alienated some people in my life, that I couldn't talk to them about some of the things I saw. The way they affected me.'

Bellatrix raised her eyebrows. 'Are you trying to relate to me?'

'No, that would be ridiculous.', Hermione snorted derisively. 'I'm merely trying to explain that I think you're human. What you said before... about wanting yourself back. I understand that. I think we can do it.' She turned on her heel and fixed Bellatrix with a decisive look. 'I assume you're ready for our little mission today?'

Bellatrix nodded coolly, a pink blush creeping up her face.

* * *

**A/N: So, first of all I'd like to apologize for my very delayed update. Life is super busy, but I'll try to be more timely from now on. This chapter is a more lighthearted installment, but I felt that was borderline necessary at this point. Still, we're getting closer to the meatier parts of our tale, so yay for that. Enjoy and please review! **


	14. Part 2: Chapter 5

**Chapter 14**

**Chapter 14**

_November 23, 2003_

They had slept for an entire day after the extraction, punctuated by nightmares ever so often. Bellatrix had screamed and pleaded in her sleep. Hermione for her part had pretended not to hear as to not disturb until she was certain the woman had gotten at least some rest. Bellatrix's state was unexpected. She should be blank, docile. Nothing should be frightening her like this. Instead, her eyes were wide and desperate, pupils dilated wide enough that her eyes were an all-consuming black.

Hermione finally took some pillows from the guest room and transfigured a comfortable makeshift bed in the sitting room where the grey daylight streamed in through a large window and the fireplace crackled comfortingly. She guided her shivering prisoner onto the bed and proceed to do another extraction. By then she was sure she must have made some mistake. She pulled out something that certainly did not seem like memories. It was unknown to her entirely, the strangely liquid bits sticking to the end of her wand. They were a deep crimson luminescent colour, disturbingly reminiscent of blood, and rather than get too caught up in that she put them in their own vials marking them for research. She fed her prisoner a rainbow bun and lulled Bellatrix into sleep again with the aid of a calming draft and some petting of the tangled nest of her hair. It wasn't really Bellatrix any longer – almost all of her had been removed by now, the rest of her trapped in the back of her mind and silenced.  
It had been ages since Hermione had done this last, she realized. The last time she'd had to lock someone's mind into a smaller part of their mind had been with a wizard whose memories had developed a tendency to burst bits of magic that caused seizures. This process was quite a bit more delicate and complicated as it was not a mere task of isolating and extracting one part of the mind for some slight alterations but a mission of reconstructing the entirety of it. It seemed almost unfathomably difficult given how troubling it had been to perform simpler operations.

Once Bellatrix stilled, Hermione wandered over to her study where there were four very large glass vats of memories in addition to the full Pensieve waiting for her. The nimble work of putting everything in separate vials and sorting it by presumed date was the first very droll but thankfully simple task. If everything had proceeded as it should have, Bellatrix should have been in her own house now that she was calm, but even apart from her health concerns Hermione thinks it too cruel to send the woman away while she examines her so intimately.  
As the hours passed by she was only disturbed once. Hermione deduced then that Bellatrix was quite simply hungry and brought her a cup of tea and a cold pasty before continuing her work. She'd had to split the study into four sections for the sorting, and as such was having a bit of trouble keeping up with the time, so she'd quite forgotten it was time to feed her patient. However, everything else was going well for now. She set a wand alarm and after an hour she returned to the sitting room to tuck Bellatrix in after giving her a Draught of Peace and putting on a record of magical children's songs that cause drowsiness.

Then she returned again to her work.

_November 24, 2003_

She found them – the memories of Azkaban. They were very easy to find, actually, once the initial mess of the large vats were sorted. The memories didn't have the silver sheen of the other memories – good or bad – but a sullen greyness and they certainly did not pop easily into images like other memories did. They filled vial upon vial upon vial in the floor-to-ceiling shelving she had put up. Twenty years per wall equalled almost an entire wall filled with nothing but Azkaban. Most memories separated and marked, Hermione felt she'd done quite well, but she was nonetheless disturbed by this second instance of Bellatrix's mind yielding something that looked not quite as it should. Many other memories were also seemingly tampered with or else had lost some of their sheen and seemed oddly disjointed. Others seemed to be shining extra hard and swirled wildly in their vials in an oddly manic fashion.

She had no time to dwell on it. They would be dealt with in time, but for now she had to put her patient together as much as she could. Hermione decided on an elaborate breakfast as a preparatory course of action, as this was clearly Bellatrix's weakness. She got everything ready before waking the witch and leading her into the kitchen.  
The woman looked drawn but blank as she sat down to pick slowly at her food, her hair an increasing tangle as they days wore on, her eyes framed in grey and purple and her shoulders sagging in defeat.

'How are you feeling?' Hermione ventured in an overtly chipper voice. Bellatrix didn't even look up. 'It's been a rough few days, huh? Do you need a pepper-up potion d'you think?'

Bellatrix kept poking at an egg, before slowly nodding at it.

Hermione knew then that they were getting nowhere near as far as she'd hoped today. The woman should be calm and trusting at this point, but she was clearly not.  
After breakfast she got Bellatrix back into the sitting room bed and did all the diagnostic tests she knew to do before finally deciding to go as severe as she could. She brought out the Draught of Living Death and administered it before performing another extraction from the sleeping woman's mind, expecting a peaceful and empty expanse when she drew up her wand. It shouldn't be possible to draw any more out of her, but something blue appeared, then something purple. She supposed they could be bindings keeping the woman together or alive, but she doesn't look worse for wear without them. She set them aside, marking these, too, for research.  
Hermione knew it was too risky to obliviate or alter Bellatrix's mind, but she felt very out of her depth when she could not even identify the things she'd pulled out of her patient. It was a frightening prospect that she could have somehow broken the woman.

She kept at it until she was exactingly certain Bellatrix was only an empty husk. She ran several more diagnostic tests on everything that came out of the witch before finally succumbing to some badly needed but very uneasy sleep, no nearer any answer.

_November 25, 2003_

It was unbearable, Hermione felt. The house was unnaturally quiet, and Bellatrix shook violently under her blanket on the couch, a feat of despair seeming almost impossible. Hermione had slept on the sofa, unwilling to let her patient be alone should something happen. Without her mind and her memories the woman seemed about as sturdy as a leaf, and the extraordinary surrender of power inherent in this procedure spurred a great and unexpected tenderness in Hermione. She felt responsible not only to do her job, but to care for the woman given over to her so completely.  
But she was simply in no fit state to be patched back together yet. Something in this woman's mind or body must have gone wrong. Hermione ran yet more diagnostics before casting whatever soothing and healing magic she could safely offer. Hopefully the woman would fall quiet eventually, and they could proceed.  
As the day wore on she started to give up hope. As this was day number 5, she decided to throw caution to the wind: she was officially panicking.

She set it all up as best she could and left herself four hours to find some help. This was not the original plan at all any longer, but Hermione was nothing if not a woman well versed in being forced to abruptly abandon her plans. She was ready.

_Hour 1 – Ministry of Magic, London _

'I don't have much time.' she announced as she rushed through the reception area. It was 4 in the afternoon, the middle of the rush to get in or out before the Ministry's ordinary business hours would end. 'I have an emergency meeting in about 2 minutes.' She smiled as best she could at the security wizard, hoping the check would go fast.

'The line is what the line is. I'm going as fast as I can. Get in the back like everyone else.' the wizard replied, looking a bit put out. But she feels certain it is the heavy sigh of annoyance she let out at that which caused the procedure to take a full 10 minutes.

The elevator stopped on every floor, letting people in and out, because of course it simply had to now she was in a rush. In all it took her another 10 minutes before she was at the Department doors, bursting through and feeling the familiar magic checking her authorizations. She pressed on, waiting for the right door to open for only a second before it did and she noticed she was panting slightly at the exertion, but she'd gotten where she needed at last and Andromeda and the Minister were sitting in front of her, waiting.

'Something's gone wrong somehow.' she begun, no time for any nonsense. 'I gave it 4 hours. I need to know what's gone wrong and what authorizations I have to fix it.' She addressed these concerns to each of them by way of greeting. She pulled out a vial from her pocket and uncorked it, marched over to the Pensieve on the desk and quickly dumped the contents in. A series of images of Bellatrix's condition flashed by.

'It looks serious.' the Minister declared, 'I hereby grant you all authority to do whatever you deem best for her health. Get the memories and her statement and prep her for trial through whichever means you feel is necessary.'

Looking a bit disturbed he flicked his wand sealing her increase in authority. 'Good day to you.' he nodded at them both and left.

Acutely aware half an hour was already gone, Hermione tapped her heal impatiently at her boss. Andromeda did not move a muscle until the door had closed behind Kingsley.

'The extraction seems successful. What's the diagnostic?' She looked vaguely off into the room and Hermione conjured the results so they flashed in midair where Andromeda was looking. Andromeda's expression was intent as she read.

'We've had some trouble with some prisoners who have certain kinds of bindings on them. Are you certain all bindings are removed?'

'Yes.' Hermione practically hissed, her anxiety immediately shifted to annoyance as her competence is questioned.

'And all lingering hexes and permanent curses?'

'Of course.' she ground out, fuming now.

'I believe it might be something Voldemort used to patch people together after Azkaban. Specialized dark magic, just as you'd expect. The Aurors have some people who know how to diagnose and treat it, and luckily one of them is available.' she smiled, 'Get Auror Tonks to give you some new diagnostics to evaluate the prisoner and we'll take it from there. It isn't your field of expertise, after all. We'll have to take it one step at a time.'

Andromeda's voice was calm and collected and Hermione could simply not believe it.

'She's your sister!' she tried, hoping whatever secret Andromeda was keeping would burst forth. 'She's obviously suffering!'

'I suppose in the very strictest sense she is my sister, but that's hardly any cause for this consternation, Hermione. As for her suffering, well... what else is new?' Andromeda's eyes levelled her easily, almost lazily before softening. 'Go see Dora. And if it means so much, let her show you how to break the binding on the first go. You have my permission and my orders.'

She did not need to be told twice.

_Hour 2 – Nymphadora Tonks' Residence, Birmingham England_

Leaving the Ministry was another lengthy affair, but luckily the Floo connection to Dora's house was as quick as ever. She sent a quick message ahead via enchanted coin (all the rage these days, it seemed), and when she stepped out of the elevator her beloved friend was standing in front of the fireplace with a series of diagrams already out for her perusal, allowing hope to burst forth in Hermione's chest again as Tonks stumbled forth to greet her.

They looked over everything together before practicing and going over it again. When Hermione's wand alarm went off to alert her 3 and a half hours have passed and she needs to get back, she thanks Tonks profusely, and simply hopes very much that this will work.

_Hour 0 _

She waited patiently in the study until she heard the bathroom door open and shut. She immediately walked past and into the sitting room to check on her patient. She began her diagnostic and healing, finally succeeding in calming the fitfully sleeping Bellatrix, whose ghostly complexion was feeling more symbolically apt by the minute, but it does not put her quite right. Deciding to forego formalities Hermione stuffs her face in the Floo and asks Andromeda what to do.

'Well, I suppose she doesn't have a very wholesome soul under there. It's probably nothing more than that – what else did you expect? She'll probably never be quite as she should regardless of what you do.' Andromeda muses. 'I'm sure it's all just fine. Proceed with the healing, Hermione.'

Whatever it is that's gone right will have to do, then. This day has already been too long. Hermione gives Bellatrix the antidote to wake her up, and begins her spellwork.

Another ten hours pass before Hermione collapses on the sofa.

_November 26_

Once again Hermione had deviated from the plan, but it seemed to have gone well. Bellatrix's mind seemed whole and strong and her body was perfectly healthy in every way after a series of targeted treatments. It was time to begin with the memories. After much consideration Hermione had decided to start with a select few memories the she felt were both safe and comforting – Azkaban would have to wait regardless of how effective she suspected that prompt would be. For now, she would only give back the memories that were whole and untarnished so she could create a strong and visceral recall without any pains or qualms in her patient. The spellwork would be complicated, but worth it if it worked.

Toying like this with minds and memories was not a precise branch of magic. Hermione didn't quite know what she was doing, but she was still one of the world's foremost experts, which the Department preferred to be a well-kept secret. Things like this were not supposed to be possible yet.  
They called it Soul Magic but it was something between psychiatry, brain surgery and neuroscience in so many ways, requiring practitioners to deal in emotions, memories, lingering effects of magic, the nature of the mind and soul, and not least try to parse where these things intersected.  
Hermione had grown to like this magic because it forced her to rely equally on her knowledge, craft and instinct. Her instincts had been so acutely disjointed after the war, and it helped lessen her panic when she practiced honing and shaping every instinct toward picking up only relevant input. It felt therapeutic, and she was by now very good at it.

She let Bellatrix sit for a while with some childhood memories she'd uncovered clouded in other recollections – a hug from her father, being served her favourite meal, listening to her mother read her and her sisters a story. She administered a potion, allowing every synapse to fire, every connection to be made. She monitored Bellatrix's feelings, although her uncharacteristically goofy grin already confirmed this was going according to plan. Then she began the spellwork, chanting the long verses of a Healing Charm in Arameic and moving her wand in a 16-pointed star behind Bellatrix's neck.  
She began filling in recent and early memories slowly, in parallel. Swirling her wand about in great oval spirals rising 35 degrees here, falling 35 degrees there, letting the chosen series of complete memories fill and fill Bellatrix's mind, bringing her slowly back.

_November 27_

Bellatrix's exclamation of 'What in Salazar's name is going on? What've you done to me, you blasted muggle?' came at precisely 7 o'clock in the morning, and Hermione could finally relax. Everything was back and in order, copies safely stored. She breathed a huge sigh of relief and Bellatrix shook her head violently before barking 'I'm think I'm going to be ill!' before promptly emptying the contents of her stomach onto the sitting room floor and then sitting up looking slightly flabbergasted.

Hermione quickly vanished the sick and found herself smiling broadly at the lively reaction – it certainly seemed the witch had been brought back much the same.  
'Perhaps a bath?' she suggested before attempting to grasp Bellatrix's arm to guide her off the bed where she was sitting, clenching her hands. The older woman drew back sharply and stared at her in bewilderment for a few seconds. 'I can do it myself.' she finally mustered and hopped inelegantly off the bed. Hermione followed her to check she was of sound enough mind to locate the bathroom before heading into the kitchen to prepare them a meal.

When Bellatrix re-emerged, looking much better (not least because she'd found some way to deal with her hair) and quite hungry, she invited the witch to sit down and they began their meal in a loaded silence.

'I feel different.' Bellatrix stated after scarfing down her fourth sausage, her hunger rivalling a teenaged Ron.

'You are a bit different, actually, but we're nowhere near finished with that yet.' Hermione smiled. Bellatrix looked at her for a long moment with wide open eyes before drawing her vision sharply down toward her food again.

'You look like absolute shit.'

Hermione had the urge to laugh, but held it back. 'I haven't gotten much sleep. It's not been a holiday for me while you were out these past 6 days, you know.'

'Right.' the dark witch gaped and returned to her meal. 'What's the next thing to do, then?'

'I reckon I'll start going over some of your memories with you after I get some sleep and get a better look at the most appropriate candidates for examination.'

She should have really sent the witch away to her new home now, but Hermione didn't really mind having her there so instead she found herself suggesting a trashy romance novel as a way to pass the time for Bellatrix before heading upstair to her bedroom.

'It's about a witch stuck on an island with no magic where she falls in love with this muggle' Bellatrix's eyebrows draw up in a massive show at scepticism and Hermione finds herself smiling wide again at the lively witch, 'Oh, just read it, it's priceless. They've got muggles completely wrong and the whole things is mostly written for the naughty bits, I expect.' she winks, and Bellatrix's eyes go even wider in dismay, her mouth forming a sneer. 'Goodnight then.' Hermione quickly cuts her off, grinning to herself as she exits decisively.

A job well done is it's own reward, even if it is just bringing back Bellatrix Lestrange.

* * *

**A/N: A much quicker update this time! I am so thankful for all the feedback, you're all super duper :) The formalities are really getting out of the way now, so this train is moving full steam ahead! That said, the updates will still take some time, but don't lose hope as I am for sure sticking with this until the bitter end. **


	15. Interlude No 2

Disclaimer reminder: Nothing belongs to me.

**Interlude 3**

_October 1999, Gibson desert, Australia _

It was a stark black night that enveloped the open desert, broken only by the warm orange flickers of light from the tent dancing across the ground and the almost white shine of stars unresponsive and unreflective as they watched from far above. The universe, Hermione knew, stretched on for impossible distances and she could travel millions of lifetimes and still never reach some of the stars above. On clear dark nights like this she felt she could almost see with her bare eyes that the sky was not a dome holding the planet in place but a vast empty space through which they were all being mercilessly hurled.

She couldn't sleep a wink for the third night in a row, but the vastness of the universe was sadly not the cause of her insomnia. That dubious honour belonged to a letter from Harry that had explained to her that a degenerative curse had gotten a firm hold of Ernie MacMillan when he touched something or other he'd come across during one of the now routine searches of the Hogwarts grounds for yet more slowly mutating magical debris from the battle, and she had responded to this news by telling... she had told the goblins. She'd been sort of desperate, really, to get home and clear out the danger and yet again be the solution to any and all problems her friends might be facing. A form of retribution she sought as much as Harry did, truth be told. Yet, the want for Hogwarts that partly spurned her on had turned on her and become all complicated in ways she'd not foreseen it ever could.  
The thing was that it had been a home, really, that she'd had at Hogwarts. A terrifying and unwelcoming home in so many respects, and a wonderful adventurous embrace of love and curiosity in others. Sometimes, when she shivered like this out in the Australian desert, reminded in her loneliness that she could count on one hand the number of people from magical Britain who had bothered to really know her and who cared for her... honestly she wasn't certain Hogwarts had been worth it. What had she gained, in the end? Recognition of her valour, fastidiousness, righteousness? Magical skill? She felt now, looking back on all the things she'd missed, every clue she'd thought she had puzzled out but hadn't really, that her efforts had been rather misguided and embarrassing. Yes, they'd got there in the end, but for the cleverest witch of her age she really didn't feel she'd gotten them quite as far as she should (she'd not had a backup plan to get them food, for Christ's sake! And that was just the bloody camping trip.). It felt so much the same thing, then, the war and her schooling. The war and growing up. Saving Harry and gaining skill were one and the same to her, almost. His continued existence a referendum on her skill and worth. It was an uncomfortable thought to have, casting her in a light she did not really enjoy. She'd clung to it, fought for it and been ruthless and reckless. Did being a Gryffindor rather than a Ravenclaw mean that she really, truly could not help herself from shooting her hand in the air because she needed to be, consequences be damned, admired for her cleverness? Was that the true nature of her bravery? She wondered now, often, how brave she could be when no one was there to see.

The months since the end of the war had been filled with harrowing tasks by day and sleepless, ceaseless reflection by night, a pattern she'd regretfully resumed now. The day after her plea she'd been informed that she hadn't gotten her way and they were not the team of curse breakers sent on a quick trip to Hogwarts to search for Dark objects and she'd found herself reflecting once again on her life. She felt decisively as if she'd leveraged Ernie MacMillans life to be reminded how most of her time in school had been miserable and frightening and it made her rather sick. Upon reflection she thought she would feel rather sick if she'd gotten her way, as well. What sort of person uses such news as a ways of getting what they want? She couldn't sleep at all.

Truth be told, the goblins did not respect her or admire her or even take much notice of her. She didn't win arguments, she couldn't outwit them, and she had to be a team player in ways she'd never had to before (namely, the decisively junior member). Kindness stemming from any sort of patronizing emotion was severely frowned upon, and so her inclination for this had turned out to be a disaster. They'd wanted her to do the work quietly and respectfully, not to be the brightest witch of her generation. There was no praise or awarding of top marks to punctuate her victories. Life post-war was quickly turning out to be a rather rude awakening, and she was beginning to suspect that it had been long overdue. Toiling in silence was rather changing her views on a lot of things.

Suddenly, as she adjusted her leaning on the windowsill so as to better wallow in her misery, she glimpsed a skeletal black creature with an enormous wingspan soar across the sky not too far off. She was struck with the odd beauty of the thestral, a creature visible to her only through the power of dreadful moments of terror and sadness. She wondered if she was, at this point, mostly made up of those moments herself.

She resolved then, as she'd always done before (a trait she felt she really could be rightly proud of) to make the best of it all.

_1963 Essex county, England_

It had been absolutely dreadful, but the lump pressing painfully against her sternum and the pit in her stomach would not win. She would not cry.

After the ceremony they'd gone back to grandfather and grandmothers' house and they had all tried to eat something. Bellatrix looked across the sitting room table to her mother who was seated, with a waxy yellow complexion looking mismatched against her pale yellow robes, on the green sofa Bellatrix usually sat on herself. Not today, however. She didn't feel very hungry.

She was, in fact, sure she'd never eat again after it happened. Whenever she closed her eyes, even just for blinking, she saw it flashing against the back of her lids again – there had been quite a bit of blood and the noise of the flesh giving way and the neck snapping – it was disgusting. She wasn't as reverent of elves as her mother, perhaps, but it just wasn't right what had happened to Lemmy. She'd been too frail to carry the tray and then when she had collapsed aunt Walburga had gotten the sword out and just – snap! - with a ceremonial flourish she'd chopped her head off!

It felt like a weight too heavy for her to carry – the finality of it seemed only peripheral, like she couldn't quite get a hold of the emotion. It was the last time she'd ever see Lemmy alive. From now on she'd just be a head on a mount.

Bellatrix excused herself as she felt the lump in her chest move ever more persistently up until she could feel it bobbing in the back of her throat. The smell of elf blood wafted through her nostrils and it was as if her body was suddenly just made out of pieces of hollow paper. As she burst through the doors into the garden she began to run.

She ran until she was completely out of breath, stopping at the edge of a kitchen garden. As she gazed across the neat vegetable patch with the realization that all the house-elves who tended the patch would die some day, that her parents and her sisters and even she would die someday, she caught sight of a large black horse descending from the sky into a forested area not far off. Her grandfather bred them for sport but she'd never seen one before. She knew what it was and she knew what it meant: she'd seen death today.

It was unmistakable how right her mother had been. The death of a house-elf was as serious a death to her soul as any other.

_1996 A forest in Wales_

Bellatrix watched intently as the thestral flew over the forest covering their tent. She had never before felt such affinity for an animal. They were fast and strong beasts, gliding through the air like sharks through water. Those were not qualities she possessed any longer, she lamented. But she, too, was only visible to those who had suffered great pain. She imagined herself lingering in the memories of those not wishing to remember her, how she'd rise to the surface when they recalled great moments of pain. Perhaps they would even see her if a dementor came too close – no, she wouldn't think on that, would not go there she quickly admonished herself.

The cool air caressed her cheek as she considered again her options. If he doesn't win, she will die. If he doesn't win there is nothing to live for either way as the dementors will... no, she wasn't going to think on that. Instead she must focus on the positives: She has never felt more devoted. She will be the harbinger of death to anyone standing in the Dark Lord's way. She will fight with everything she possesses.

_February 1982, Azkaban prison, North Sea_

The dank walls dripped with salty water as they were huddled together, jostling for a bit of air drifting down with the single ray of light coming from somewhere above. The wind was whistling loudly and the men seemed smaller than usual. They smelled of sweat and stank with horror.

A strong, warm burst of magic pulled her away from them suddenly and then there was darkness.  
She was the only woman. They've secluded her, she realized. Gender segregation seemed to her a demented thing to be worrying about in this place, but the prudishness of the wizarding world cannot be overstated apparently.

She waits, her breath sounding louder and louder and faster and faster in her ears as she attempts to silence it. Her heart is beating uncomfortably as if straining to escape her body. She can feel, she imagines she can at least, the veins pumping blood through her. She attempts to focus on it, tries to slowly feel and connect with every point of herself. Left big toe, then up along the bones of her feet. Back of ankle, calf. Her belly rumbles loudly. Right shoulder, down along her spine. Surely they must come for her soon?

It began like a scream echoing from far away when the dementors approach before they finally actually touched her. She felt cold, so cold. Too weak to shiver, her mind numbing quickly as they dragged her away into the drip drip drip salty corridor. She remembered suddenly how alone she was and felt rather desperate, wishing idly they would kill her before a beam of sharp yellow light broke open her eyes and she was thrown forward into it.

The shapes of a few patronuses circled the room where she was quickly strapped into a chair by what felt like many hands. Sensation was coming back quickly, too quickly, and it was making her rather queasy. The light hurts her eyes, the warmth is too much.

When a wand was pressed on her throat and began to burn, she let out a strangled scream. The hands holding her head down tightened their grip and that hurt, too. The intense white light on the inside of her eyelid was very painful then and she struggled to keep her eyes closed. As her teeth graze a hand someone hits her across her face, stinging her cheek. The burning continues until suddenly a sadistic splash of cold water hits her head and once again, all too suddenly, she's dragged off by dementors.

This time she could still feel the side of her neck blazing as her head pounded out a beat that felt a lot like defeat.

_October 18 2000, Australia_

Hermione had never really considered what sort of person she was attracted to in any more general terms than the person she specifically fancied when she considered the question. Ron had been such a constant, only ever interrupted by crushes on others, particularly Viktor and (God help her) Lockhart, that there had not been much of an occasion to ponder it. Now there was no one stopping her, Hermione Granger took in everyone around her with interest. The freedom of no one looking back at her more generally was starting to feel like a relief after a few visits back to London, where all constraints were still very much at play. The invisibility afforded her in Australia (where her exploits were known, certainly, but not like at home) gave her the liberty of true personhood once more, rather than the character assigned to her in the political battlefield.

In her group of apprenticing curse breakers Hermione had seen injury and death more often than she would have liked, though not as much as she had feared she would. Gradually, it had changed her. Really, she would have liked for everyone to stay alive and to be happy. She wanted it more than she wanted to be right,wanted it more, she suspected, than she wanted answers. So she looked and looked and tried to shut up and connect. Hermione tried very hard these days to listen.  
One day after a rather exhausting treasure retrieval of some mineral deposits given magic long ago and now grown to great power she goes to a bar to assess yet again what sort of person she might take an interest in and meets a witch who eventually kisses her in the cool July air seemingly blanketing the little town in New South Wales and making her feel rather more at home than the warm dryness of Port Musgrave. The woman is sort of interesting she supposes, and at first she isn't sure if it is merely the familiarity of the weather or the true surprise of the moment that causes the intense feeling the kiss creates in Hermione. It's not planned or built up to, really, and Hermione has had no time to assess what it is she finds attractive and decide to be attracted to it... and everything she has ever thought about attraction and about the feelings she has regarding such things are shattered in the looming difference between this very simple and insignificant kiss and what she has shared with others before. With Ron it was a conquering, with other men a victory or an act of bravery and bluntness – a show of strength. This is an unquestionable surrender with no thought put into it at all. Her mind stills completely when the woman, Rowena (originally an amusing point of interest for her, she admits), touches her ever more intimately. It is the only thing that has ever managed to still her mind like this and it makes her feel as if the mysteries of the universe finally unravel into the simplest of explanations. It is simply right, it makes every bit of sense and feels quite as natural as breathing. It is a new and unexpected magic when Hermione realizes she might be sort of gay.

_Brisbane, Australia 2002 _

Maybe that's what it was, this peculiar curiosity that never left her – a profound immaturity. Like an infant she still finds herself interested in everything, and really quite delighted by most things. Or perhaps it is that she still has quite a few gaps in her knowledge of ordinary life – it's always been Hogwarts and Voldemort and survival of the best-prepared and while she would never discount all the knowledge she has amassed through those years, they haven't proved quite as useful in dealing with contemporary adult life as expected. Currently, however, it appears an inherited trait and profoundly childish indeed.

'It simply isn't possible.' she tries to explain to her parents, not wanting to get into too many details of magical law and tradition, not to mention the mechanics of it all. 'No muggles are allowed at the Quidditch World Cup.'

'But it's being held where there are Muggles! And we've been to Platform 9 3/4 and Diagon Alley, surely the World Cup isn't that secret...'

'I wasn't of age then, dad. It's different now that I am – it's very strict. Isolationist factions are gaining traction all over the world, and the Americans haven't ever been keen on mixing anyway, as the muggles haven't behaved too well the last few hundred years.'

'Right.' her father says, suspicious, unsatisfied. She throws her hands in the air, exasperated at her parents refusal to be denied this opportunity for fun. They're positively pouting.

'It's the truth, dad! They've got a much more robust structure of hiding things – you know, the International Statute of Secrecy happened when there was plenty of wilderness to blend into, and the Native people already had fairly large areas sectioned off long before colonization began.' deciding to switch tactics and divulge more, she added 'You don't even speak the language, I don't know what you'd do there.'

'What?'

'The common languages of the United Wizarding Ministries is Algic, Nahuatl and Latin. English, Spanish and French are widely spoken, but with the game being between Mexico and England I am not sure what to expect, really. Probably Nahuatl.'

'What?!'

'Not all of history looks precisely the same on either side of the magic divide, dad. Secrecy stautes in the Americas predates much of the colonization of the wizarding world – British wizards haven't held the same sway internationally as their Muggle equivalents, either, so no later colonization occurred. Native Americans are very much the powerful majority in wizarding circles. Magical families were not subject to genocide as they were already living separately and not many European families emigrated. Muggleborns were often returned to attend Hogwarts, and these days most English speakers are sent to the Salem Institute of Witches or the McDonald School for Wizards in the Yukon. It's very different. Magic means translation won't be a problem for me... but that doesn't apply to you.'

The skies were open for monsoon season, and she felt the lack of any place of belonging acutely. Her parents history and their whole world was just so different. The history of the wizarding world was not her history, either, however prominently she featured in some of their recent volumes on the subject. She belonged to neither community.

'You know we don't speak English where I live? Basically the whole Cape York wizarding area speaks Urradhi, which is extinct as a muggle language. For work I occasionally speak gobbledegook, but rarely any English.' She levels her father with an intent gaze. 'It's not the same world you live in, dad. No one can cross over into it without magic. You can't be a tourist in the wizarding world outside of Britain.'

_July 15 2001, Hogsmeade Scotland_

'It's awful.' she stated furtively, frowning at the papers in a Hogsmeade newsstand.  
'Well, at least you look fit.' Ron said, staring at the image of Hermione, wearing a dress that showed off one of the fiercer curse scars on her back (thanks to Yaxley, one assumed) pushing a dreadlocked man in an impeccable suit up against a wall.  
'I look like I'm about to shag him right there!' Hermione insisted indignantly, mortified at the headline hinting that she was indeed about to do just that.

Harry let out a chuckle.

'What, weren't you?'  
'Harry! Honestly!'

Then quietly 'I think I might be gay, actually.' as she stared at the ground. 'Andrew and I were just talking.'

They stare at her incredulously.

'Fine, I was threatening to cut his balls off should he ever lay hands on Ginny again.'

'You're not gay, Hermione. You still fancy me, don't you?' Ron grinned.

'Let's talk about this later, yeah?' Her face burned as she pulled on Harrys arm to get them moving.

_August 4 1998, outside Gringotts Wizarding Bank London, England_

Hermione was certain. The goblins' demands were outrageous and she hadn't done anything to be sorry for at all. The consequences were very sad indeed, but it had been war for Chrissakes! If they couldn't understand that she had done what she had to, well... she was a bloody hero, not a criminal.

It wasn't that she disagreed that the proceedings had been terrible, not at all. She'd gladly pay her respects and perhaps the Ministry could cough up something to repay for the damages... but she would not be bullied like this over her guilt. She simply would not! Her future was at stake!

She felt more than a twinge of guilt over the incident at Gringotts, that was true. She'd discussed it with Harry early on, and they'd decided it had been unavoidable in the end. However, to give her future up like this -

'Hey!'

She turned on her heel at the familiar voice and felt herself turn red in embarrassment as she saw Cho Chang. This was not going to be pleasant, she could tell already.

'You!' she wheezed as she got closer, clutching a letter in her hand. 'It's you! Finally! I badly need to speak with you. Something's happened.' She caught her breath rather quickly. Probably all that Quidditch, Hermione reckoned.

'What's happened?' Hermione felt consternation rushing through her. How bad was it that Cho Chang of all people was sent to deliver the news? Where was Harry, or Ron?

'I've got a letter from mrs. Edgecombe.' Cho said, and Hermione could not help it, she snorted. That old spiff? That ancient bit of news? It was so long ago and really, that petty bit of school drama hardly mattered any- 'Marietta's killed herself.'

'What?'

Cho's voice was drifting into her ears from far away all of a sudden. 'Seeing you being awarded a medal for your efforts was just too much, she said.'

Several seconds went by. She didn't think anything at all, didn't feel anything at all.

'Hello?!' Cho snapped her fingers in front of Hermione's face, bringing her back to the situation. 'What are you going to do?'

'What do you mean? It's not my fault! I've nothing to do with it!'

'Shit, Hermione. I knew when you did that to her, I knew you were horrid. But I never dreamed you'd leave a curse powerful enough to keep her quiet and disfigured for _years, _I mean who does something like that? In the midst of all the decisions you've had to make you never once stopped to consider letting it up? Letting it go? She had tough choices to make, too, you know!'

She felt a wave of nausea wash over her. 'I... I'm sorry.' she croaked before rushing off. She needed someone outside of this whole mess to speak with, she needed... Ginny.


	16. Part 2: Chapter 6

**Part 2 act 6 or Chapter 13  
**

_I know a man in London town  
who works to tidy rooms  
he's got no wife, he sweeps in strife  
and curses in the gloom  
but when the witch's sabbath comes  
his broom's a nifty toy  
then there's a lad who's very bad  
yes, he's a naughty boy_

_See, a fellow down in Blocksberg says  
he sees him once a year  
he flies to fray so muggles pray  
the Lord to keep their fear  
for his cocoon of dark and gloom  
makes witching kind go wild  
he's not so sad once they've been had  
and he's had one and all_

_'The Witch Hunter' traditional wizarding rhyme as collected by Bridget Crabbe and published in 'Lewd poems collected' in 1895, where it is noted male interlopers to Walpurgis night has been a popular erotic theme for centuries. It is also noted the poem suggests a lower rank in society perhaps being common for wizarding kind prior to seclusion._

_..._

_November 28 2003_

It seemed brighter. It was November, of course, so not very bright but still... it seemed brighter. Warmer. Her head wasn't hurting and she could feel the rumbling of her belly. When she stretched her limbs out while laying in her bed (the softness of which she could _feel), _the muscles and tendons seemed to quiver and stretch and... be satisfied?

She laid in bed longer than usual as the warmth of her blanket enveloped her and reached into her muscles all the way to her bones, radiating heat through her whole body. She could feel her heart beat in a pleasant sort of way, could feel her whole body in fact, and it was entirely free of any pains or aches.

What an odd thing indeed.

Her robes felt soft against her skin, lending a weighty solidity her undergarments simply did not aid her with in the chill, grounding her. Her braies were a bit large these days and she could feel her thighs touching one another when she sat down– her skin felt impossibly soft. The creases of the edge of her chemise tickled the bottom of her hips, just below the waist of the braies.

The lightness of her body followed her down the stairs and into the kitchen – where her keeper was cooking for them (the irony of which was not lost on her).

All in all, everything seemed rather well.

She could remember, if she concentrated, the sounds birds make in Spring. While sipping on a warm cup of coffee she closed her eyes and did just that. Her captor, who seemed to stand a little taller and be a bit fuller and more softly outlined to her eyes, reached a plate over to her before sitting across from her at the table. She could smell the grease in the air and almost as clearly she could smell the floral tinge of her captors shampoo – the clean smell of someone freshly bathed wafting off her in waves. It made the room seem friendly and warm. It was just a horrid morning in early winter but for all her senses told her it could be summer, really.

Oh, it was a beautiful morning to be alive, Bellatrix decided. The mudblood had come through on her end of the bargain - now Bellatrix would hold up hers.

_..._

_January 1982, Auror Office – Azkaban division, Berwick-upon-Tweed, England _

'I've gained quite the reputation and I see no reason not to capitalize on it, sir. I am guilty, after all.'

'But why the Longbottoms, eh? What're you really after, Lestrange?'

'The Dark Lord will return, Auror Proudfoot, and I am not afraid.'

'That's not an answer.' he sighed heavily, 'Fine, let's get this show started, then. Do you deny the torture of Alice and Frank Longbottom leading to their permanent incapacitation?'

'Absolutely not.'

'Well, feel free to elaborate.'

'We thought Longbottom had information. His wife was brought on as collateral when he proved... indecisive about sharing with us what he knew.'

'That simple, eh? Go on.'

'We had taken in Barty after the Dark Lord disappeared because he was so distraught. He is, after all, terribly young. So I took him on our mission.'

'You planned it?'

'I did indeed.'

'Well, go on then.'

'I kidnapped Frank Longbottom and his wife and tortured them. Satisfied?'

'Why now? You have never been indicated, you were not suspected of any involvement. I find it difficult to believe you'd just go on this mission without any decisive proof – you've risked everything for nothing. You're not telling me the whole story.'

'That is the whole story. I am loyal to the Dark Lord and I stand to gain everything. He'll come for me. I've lost nothing.'

'He Who Must Not Be Named is gone. He's dead.'

'He's alive. He'll be back. I know it.'

'Right. So. What is your involvement with He Who Must Not be Named? How long has it been going on?'

'Longer than you could possibly be thinking.'

'And the nature of your involvement...?'

'Of the utmost importance.'

_..._

_1960 Black Family Estate_

'This is our family crest, Bellatrix. Tojours Pur means always pure.' Orion pointed to the elegant lettering on the crest.

'Why is that our motto?' Bellatrix bites on her thumb thoughtfully as she pulls on her fathers' hand. Orion considered for a moment, before he gifted her a warm, bright smile.

'It is our motto because it reveals something of importance to the family. What it reveals is that you are exceptional, my darling. You see, we are a family of extraordinary magic. It is in our blood. As you grow you will notice that we Blacks tend to have remarkable ability and power. You will meet, unfortunately, a great many ignorant people who will attempt to convince you this power isn't because of our blood, that it is entirely coincidental. But let me assure you, darling, that it is not a coincidence. The Black family does extraordinary things, and we hold extraordinary power. Our motto serves as a reminder that this must be preserved. It is important to remember always that power and wealth are to be managed, Bellatrix, not used and spent for fleeting pleasure or glory. We must preserve the heritage given to us by our ancestors. We must strengthen the magical blood that flows in our veins. Tojours Pur, my darling. Always pure – in all things. It is our gift, and it is our burden, to forge the most powerful magical blood we possibly can. Whatever people say, we have put it out for all to see in our motto.'

_..._

_February 1982, Azkaban, North Sea_

She shouted down the hall so Barty could hear, finally, what the mistake had been. Or, at least, the mistake she was willing to divulge. Here, in a cell waiting to be taken for a hearing the could finally speak privately.

'They did not end up in the state they are now because we tortured them too much. I know they knew something. They must have passed it along to Dumbledore, they must have been under Fidelius. The incapacitation they've experienced was likely caused by the Cruciatis and the Fidelius tearing their minds apart, or some botched memory charm. No one would be able to withstand answering a question in the state they were in, but I still believe they had the information!'

_..._

_December 4, 2003 excerpt from interview by Unspeakable Granger for mrs. Lestranges hearing and deposition, read into the record on March 15 2004_

'A lot of people think it's a family matter, but let me make it clear now that it is not. My father left the Knights of Walpurgis once they started taking a firmer line. He was an isolationist through and through and believed the mudbloods posed a security threat. He thought my Aunt and Uncle were insane to not give up living in the middle of Muggle London. No, my father wasn't about to assert his right to have the entirety of Britain available for magical people. It was all about keeping us safe from the muggles by never letting our paths cross.'

'What was he afraid of, do you suppose?'

'They don't like witches, he said. They'd kill us if given the chance.

When Andromeda ran away my father showed me photographs of muggle death camps. He told me that's what Muggles do to people they don't like. They don't have magic and they make it up in violence. Historically speaking there has never been a time where they liked us. He impressed upon me to keep away from them at all times. Never show them my magic if I could help it, he said. Never show them that I existed at all, in fact, if it could be avoided. Andromeda would lead a miserable life, he said.'

'Did your father introduce you to the Dark Lord?'

'Haven't you been listening? They didn't take the same line at all. My point is simply that I grew up in a very... restricted world. The boundaries were very clearly drawn up. It was painfully obvious that I was imprisoned in the wizarding world and that muggles ruled the outside world and the Ministry only had the muggles' protection at heart, not mine. Like most of the purebloods I've met in my life, and I've met nearly all of them, I was guarded and fearful as a child.

Now, while I was growing up the Dark Lord was gaining quite a bit of influence in the Knights of Walpurgis. My father left the organization, though the resignation was mostly symbolic as the more militant branch soon after broke off into their own organization, and the Knights folded. The Dark Lord was gaining mastery over the Dark Arts, and wished to build a new world order in which magical people needn't fear the muggles at all. As I'm sure you're aware, the militant branch of the Knights therefore called themselves the Death Eaters, in reference to their joined mission of mastering the Dark Arts and gaining a larger magical homeland. They would push the boundaries of magic, and the boundaries of the Wizarding World, devouring all obstacles. The muggles would know our power, they wouldn't dare interfere any longer! They would be punished, finally, for their insolence and their ignorance and for their cruelty. I met the Dark Lord years later, through mutual acquaintances.'

_..._

_1958 Number 12 Grimmauld Place, London England_

'See, this is our family.' Aunt Walburga was smiling at her.

'All of these people are our family?'

Bellatrix stared wide-eyed at the tapestry that took up a whole wall in her aunt and uncle's house. Everyone in it was staring down at her impressively.

'How come I've never met them?' she asked while studying the portrait of a man named Arcturus.

'Well, you've met some of them, dear. And the rest are long gone. This shows people who came before us. The parents of our parents and so on, do you see?'

Auntie Walburga pointed towards the top of the tapestry. Bellatrix nodded. 'I... I think so.'

Auntie looked at her in an understanding sort of way.

'This here, see, is you.' Auntie pointed at a picture of her that had a caption _Bellatrix Black _'And this is Andromeda and Narcissa.' Bellatrix nodded as her aunt pointed out her sisters, 'And this is your mother and father, this is me, there's uncle Orion and aunt Lucretia and uncle Ignatius.'

Bellatrix recognized all of them. Aunt Walburga continued, 'and you see here is your grandfather and grandmother. And all of these people', she pointed to another part of the tapestry in a sweeping motion, 'you might have seen at family gatherings. They're the brothers and sisters and cousins of your grandfather. The ones over there are your great grandparents and their siblings. You've met great aunt Belvina and great uncle Arcturus, haven't you?' Bellatrix nodded.

'Well, over them is their parents. Of course, they're dead. See, the further up the tapestry you go, the older everyone is. So once you get high enough up everyone is so old they are dead.' Auntie Walburga explained kindly. Bellatrix was sure she understood now. They had lived a long time ago. Although it certainly appeared like it at family gatherings Black family members did not, in fact, live forever.

'What about the burned parts?' she scratched her finger over a burn mark between her aunt and her father.

'Not everyone who is born a Black wishes to stay a Black, darling. So they're removed. They aren't important.' Auntie Walburga rubbed her belly thoughtfully, 'It's more important that those of us who aren't burned off stay together and keep going.'

'When is the baby coming?' Bellatrix turned to her aunt.

'Oh, it won't be long now. Will you come babysit once he's here?'

'Oh, yes, I'd very much like that! I'll bring Andromeda and Narcissa, too!' Bellatrix practically shrieked with excitement. She loved the feeling of importance that came with watching Andromeda and Narcissa, and she thought watching a small cousin might be even better. Her aunt flashed her a warm smile.

'Come on, love. It's time for lunch.'

...

_April 1972 Black Family Estate_

'How would you feel about marrying _me_?'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, our parents would approve of the match, we wouldn't have to do anything we didn't want to do, and we'd be spared having to marry any of the idiots in school. We could run away together and live happily ever after and all that.'

They were lying on a bed in a guest bedroom, and Rodolphus was grinning at her. They'd put on matching robes and hats and shoes and taken a swig each of Polyjuice. He was looking at her through her own eyes. His body felt strange on her. It hummed and pulsed with her excitement. She wasn't used to feeling so heavy, for her chest to be so flat. He was tall and angular. It wasn't unpleasant, really, just a bit odd. Her center of gravity wasn't where it should have been.

'Would it always be as much fun as this, though?'

'Always.' he grins mischievously at her, 'We'd have a cottage by the sea and we'd travel the world and we'd attend parties and always have the most fun out of anyone because we'd be together.'

'Oh, Rodolphus,' she fluttered her eyelashes, knowing how ridiculous it looked on his face, 'you know just what to say to me.'

He laughed, 'Come off it. I'm serious, Trix. We'd get our gold together and we would be free. We'd owe our allegiance only to each other. Sod them all!'

'Are you in love with me, Rodolphus?'

'No, my darling Trix. But I do care for you, and you are by far the superior choice available to me, which is as good as it will be, I think. I wouldn't mind living out my life with you for a wife.' he smiled warmly at her in his own way, but it looked odd and rather drowsy on her face. 'I trust you enough for this' he waved vaguely between them 'to be something I can do with you. Who else would I build a life with when I have this?'

She had already known the answer, and felt, truth be told, much the same way. They had so much fun, and they'd always been the best of friends. And now that they were older things were changing. They hadn't taken Polyjuice just to lie on this bed, after all. Finding someone else so... adventurously inclined would likely be difficult.

'I'll think about it, Rod. Now,' she made her voice low and gruff to imitate his speaking voice, 'I have something pressing to show you.' They both giggled, and she felt a thrill of excitement running through her, tightening her braies in an unfamiliar way. This was so deliciously wrong.

...

_December 4, 2003 excerpt from interview by Unspeakable Granger for mrs. Lestranges hearing and deposition, read into the record on March 15 2004_

'Tell me about your husband.'

'It was a marriage of convenience. We were in the same year in school, met in the Great Hall at the feast, sat opposite each other on the Slytherin table. Thick as thieves, as they say.

When he suggested it I was enchanted with the idea of not being bound to have children, to be able to leave my childhood home and... well, Rodolphus promised me the world in exchange for my vows. We were more than happy to promise spending our lives together, really. We got a house, nothing too ridiculous or anything, and tried to find the freedom we longed for away from prying eyes.

I didn't know much about it at the time, but Rodolphus did have a family connection to the Dark Lord. His father and brother were Death Eaters. His brother had replaced his father after his father's death, but no one knew. People forget how secret the Death Eaters were then. But Rodolphus and Rabastan were raised with these beliefs, raised to join. Their father had followed the Dark Lord from the Knights of Walpurgis. Rodolphus didn't care much about it when we were in school, and neither did I, really. Later, of course...the Dark Lord had some suspicions about me, and wanted a chance to recruit me. My father didn't know the Lestranges were in with the Dark Lord then as no one knew who was in. My parents were thrilled by the prospect, having always liked Rod. I was thrilled I didn't have to live at home anymore, that I would have a go at a real life. All along, Rodolphus was acting on behalf of the Dark Lord without even knowing it. Rabastan had been instructed to explain to Rod how practical the marriage would be. By the time I found that out I was too infatuated with My Lord to care. It was our own decision in the end either way.

We didn't... well, magical life is just so restrictive, isn't it? All the secrecy, all the hiding. We had power and brains, but nothing much to use it for. We spent a lot of time with Rabastan, and the talk turned ever more political. My cousin was of course also an influence – Evan Rosier that is. It didn't take long until Rod wanted that glorious new world order and I started dreaming of a world where I could be free to go wherever I wanted while wearing whatever I bloody well chose and where magical creatures could roam free and I could practice my power and be my most magical self without fear of reprisal. We were already interested in the Dark Arts, being of the more intellectual persuasion, but our interest turned political then.

Rodolphus was a sweet man. He was excellent at espionage, but a spotty dueller compared to myself. I was an excellent dueller and I can throw curses with the ease of breathing at that time, frankly. Together we were a formidable team. There was much camaraderie between us.'

...

_March 1966 Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland_

Andromeda Black was a Slytherin who had friends in Hufflepuff house. _Merlin, she is so embarrassing sometimes_, thought Bellatrix as she stamped through the corridors and into the library. It didn't really matter, of course. Andromeda was certainly a bit soft for a Slytherin, after all. She'd seemed terribly lonely until she'd started hanging about with the Hufflepuff girl Abbott, whom she had been paired with in Potions. Professor Slughorn had a knack for introducing people, Bellatrix knew. It was likely no coincidence they'd been paired.

Either way it was still annoying. Andromeda often requested Bellatrix help with her homework, and she'd always choose a table in the library with people from different houses, always with that blasted Hufflepuff girl. And now she had evidently gone and chosen a table FULL of the idiots. There were even mudbloods! Bellatrix felt a little nauseous. Those brats had no business coming here at all, she had decided. This castle belonged to witches and wizards. The mudbloods had the rest of the world, why couldn't they very well leave her little corner alone?

'Bellatrix!' Andromeda called softly so as not to annoy the bat of a librarian, Madame Billrod. Bellatrix huffed and made her way over, trying to convey her dismay as much as she could in every movement.

'There's no need for you to join us if you don't want to. I'm sure Lyra can help me, can't you Lyra?' Andromeda arched her eyebrows at Bellatrix and then turned to look at an older girl across the table whom Bellatrix recognized from Herbology classes.

'Of course I could.' smiled the girl, jutting her chin forward ever so much – a clear challenge.

Bellatrix sat down, somewhat reluctantly still. 'Alright, alright. I just don't understand why you insist on dragging me all the way up here. We could just do this in our common room like normal people.'

'So you and Rodolphus can crack jokes at each other all evening long and ignore me? No, thank you.'

Bellatrix made a point to scowl her most petulant scowl at that.

'Not going to introduce us, are you?'

'Oh, I'm sorry. This is my sister Bellatrix. Bellatrix, that's Ted Tonks, you know Hesta Abbott of course. I suppose you also know Lyra Fawley, and this is Kendra Hidgens.' She nodded at them all in turn, silently horrified.

'Hello', she directed at Fawley, ignoring the others now. She would _not _speak with mudbloods. Her father would never forgive her, if nothing else. Besides, who knew what sort of twisted things mudbloods talked about anyway? Best not to tempt fate.

'Right. So, Ted, you wanted to talk to me about something?' Lyra pointedly turned away to engage with the mudblood. _Unbelievable. Sodding Hufflepuffs. _Though she was not entirely certain which of the two of them had been more rude. She was a Slytherin, after all. She was supposed to have impeccable manners. _I could have just pretended, couldn't I? Or would that have been wrong, too? _

She turned to Andromeda. 'Transfiguration, then? Or Charms?' She hoped it was Transfiguration, as Andromeda was completely hopeless at Charms. She wouldn't be able to charm her way out of a cupboard, Bellatrix was sure.

'Charms.' Andromeda grinned.

'You are as always a thorn in my side.' she sighed dramatically.

'Oh, honourable sister, have I offended thee with my ignorance?' Andromeda laughed and pulled out a heavy text, flipping through the pages. 'So, the essay is on differentiating between charmable and non-charmable wards and well, I just am not certain about this wand movement here, see this figure on page 789?'

'The hexagonal pattern is performed from east to west holding your wand at a 45 degree angle at elbow height. How is it unclear exactly?'

And so they began. Bellatrix loved Charms, really. The theory and the practice were intricate and something one needed to understand thoroughly in order to make anything happen at all once one got to a certain level. She loved the challenges offered by charms, transfiguration and arithmancy – the rest of her classes were almost background noise by comparison.

As the evening progressed it turned out Lyra had no problem sending the occasional snide remark Bellatrix's way, keeping up a strange sort of tension between them. It was rather unexpected for a Hufflepuff, Bellatrix thought.

_..._

_December 7, 2003_

'Is it very different, the way you live now and the way you lived... before?'

Hermione looked pensive for a moment, resting her hands on the kitchen counter,

'Before magic you mean? There's loads of stuff that is different. All sorts of things. You know for instance, muggles have very different names. Wizards and witches have such a sort of names that no one ever needs a second explanation of mine. Muggles aren't at all accustomed to my name. When I tell a witch of wizard that my name is Hermione they never go Excuse me? It's very refreshing to not have to spell it out. Everything else is just a difference in technology. Cooling charm or refrigerator, telephone or Floo, that sort of thing as far as daily life goes at least.'

'Muggles have different names?'

'Yes. I suppose. I mean, look at you. If you were muggle I doubt very much you'd be named for the Amazon star. It's only fitting though, for the woman warrior and all.'

'Ah, well, Alfonsine wasn't entirely reliable in his translations. It is Al Najid, the conqueror. Which isn't as fitting.'

'Well, it is a good name at any rate.'

'It sets up the expectation as all our names do. Narcissa, the beautiful flower. Andromeda, the chained lady. Bellatrix, the warrior. The daughters of Cygnus, the Northen cross, and Druella, the elfin vision.'

'All Greek except your mother. What tradition does Druella come from then?'

'German. They're very close to the elves over there. My mother caught me terrorizing the house-elves once, I thought she was going to murder me.' Bellatrix chuckles. 'They've been the guardians of magical realms there. They've got more than just house-elves in Germany. I suppose this is why she absolutely hated my aunt Walburga.'

...

_May 1966 Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland_

It wasn't the most popular of opinions to have, but Bellatrix hated Quidditch after-parties. They tended to get rather loud, and she didn't much like loudness. Or crowds, which the parties tended to attract. The Black household had always been quiet. They had fun, certainly, but quiet fun, and privacy whenever one needed it. She had never quite gotten used to loudness, even since coming to Hogwarts. She much preferred, when the after-parties happened, to pilfer some food and then bugger off to roam the castle. She was rather skilled at getting around, and she enjoyed the hours of privacy immensely. She rarely had any privacy in school at all otherwise.

'Bellatrix?'

She turned to see Lyra Fawley approach.

'What are you doing out here?'

'Oh, I've gotten some... stuff.' she grinned. 'Come with me to the Astronomy Tower!'

'What?'

'Come on!' Lyra approached and hunched over Bellatrix conspiratorially, 'I've got something fun.' she said as she briefly flashed Bellatrix the bottle of Ogden's Old Firewhiskey she was hiding in her robes.

Grinning, Bellatrix agreed and they set off.

\- . - . -

'You are a horrible person. You know that, don't you?'

'Me? I am not anything of the sort!'

'You're a filthy rich blood purist.' a stern look follows this pronouncement, 'Don't imagine for a second that I am not aware of your leanings. Or that I approve.'

'Look who's talking, Fawley. You are no paragon of good yourself, running around with all sorts of filth, smuggling drink into the school.'

She is angered by the hostility, but it feels fun and dangerous to argue now that she is undoubtedly tipsy, perhaps even drunk. It is easy now. Her body is tingling with firewhiskey and excitement.

'They're not like us, you know. They're from a different culture, and no matter how much we all pretend that they don't try to pass on their Muggle ways to us, they are still doing it. I simply wish to keep my own culture. I don't want them here, ruining it.'

'Supremacist.' Lyra throws it at her, almost playfully.

'Perhaps.' she shrugs, 'Muggles don't have magic. Magic is better than not having magic. I have magic, and I refuse to consort with anyone who might take my magic from me. It isn't really that prejudiced to recognize that having magic does indeed make me superior.'

She hasn't seen anything yet to suggest her father is wrong about these things. She sees the mudbloods in the corridors on weekends in their muggle costumes, she sees their bizarre footwear poking out of their school robes. Mundane tasks done by hand rather than wand. They forget what they can do. They're more muggle than magic, she thinks, and while she may not be perfect she is certainly not as hateful as a muggle, nor as stupid.

'Not even trying to deny it? For Merlin's sake, Bellatrix. This isn't 1748, you know. They aren't so bad, really.'

'They know nothing of our world and seem wholly intent on destroying whichever part of it they are granted access to' her father's argument rolls off her tongue now, 'and if you hate me so much you should not have invited me here.'

Childish again. It does feel like rejection, being told off like this.

'Since it seems I am stuck studying with you I was hoping I could sort you out a bit. Find some redeeming quality in you. You are wound so awfully tight all the time that I occasionally fear you might burst.' she gives Bellatrix an unmistakably drunken smile, 'You are really very clever, at least, so there's your redeeming feature. I was simply hoping there was more to you than excellent completer of homework assignments.'

Bellatrix doesn't quite know why she does it, but she leans in and kisses Lyra ever so softly. When Lyra kisses her back, it isn't soft at all, but powerful. Her lips are soft and she tastes like firewhisky but also something indeterminable and wonderful the Bellatrix suspects has something to do with Lyra herself. After a while they pull back, and Bellatrix eagerly accepts the offering of another swig of firewhiskey, and she drinks as much as she can stomach before throwing herself again into the arms of her companion.

...

_February 1972 Lestrange house, near Tywyn, Wales_

Bellatrix apparated directly into Rodolphus' bedroom, having never been more relieved he had arranged the wards for her so that she could.

'Well, she's gone and done it, hasn't she?'

'What?'

'She's had the baby! She's had his bloody child!'

'Disgusting.' Rodolphus wrinkled his nose.

'It is! Revolting is what it is!' she almost screamed and cradled her body, continuing quietly 'Father is so upset, mother cries all day long. We haven't seen her, of course, since she married the bastard. And now we know she is never coming back. A mudblood child! Aunt Walburga has blasted her off the tapestry, barmy old coot.'

Bellatrix slumped on the bed, pain etched on her face. 'I'll never see her again. It isn't just about blood. She chose him over all of us. She chose his side. Why would she do this to us? It isn't right, mixing with muggles! We've spent our whole lives in hiding because of them and now she's diluting the magical properties of our blood in order to join them? It's not right! She was my sister!'

She cried silently for a while, before finally regaining her composure. Rodolphus eventually reached for her hand. It had not occurred to her before to do it now, but she decided this was the time to finally settle the matter.

'Do you still want to marry me, Rod?'

'Certainly. There aren't too many available girls out there for me, to be honest. My father insists it has to be a pureblood Slytherin with the right kind of family. Most of the people who are those things and our age are also blokes.'

She giggled.

'Well, I mean, it wouldn't be so bad, would it? Maybe we could salvage the Black name.'

'I think a nice pureblood wedding might indeed take everyone's mind off what has been going on.'

At last, there was something she could do. She'd thought about this for years anyway, long before Rodolphus had brought it up. As he rightly pointed out, there weren't too many appropriate candidates available, and out of the boys in school she couldn't think of anyone she liked better than Rodolphus. He was her best friend. At least a life with him would be fun, if devoid of romance.

'Alright, Rod.' she made a grand show out of getting on one knee, wiping the last bit of tears off her face with her sleeve.'My good sir, most honoured gentleman. Would you do me the honour of being my husband?'

He grinned, and fluttered his eyelashes at her, mirroring her from happier times, delicately giving her his hand. 'Why, my lady, the honour would be all mine!'

They fell to the floor, enveloping each other in an embrace. This, Bellatrix thought, was a great idea. He was the safest place she could ever be.

...

_June 1957, Black Family Estate_

Bellatrix and Andromeda generally agreed that the most boring thing in the world was when one of them were ill, although they could not quite agree whether it was worse to be ill or worse to be left to play alone – and as Andromeda had been stricken ill with dragon pox, Bellatrix was now certain she was the most bored person in the whole world.

So, since she couldn't go in and see Andromeda, she had tried to ambush the house-elves. Their huge eyes and flappy ears were ever so amusing when they jumped back in fright.

But then her mother had caught her throwing a vase at a house-elf, giggling wildly as the elf ran for cover under the dining table.

'Bellatrix Black! What do you think you are doing?!' Druella screeched.

'Playing.' she tried hesitantly, striking her most petulant pose.

'Are you under the impression that our servants are to be treated this way by insolent brats such as yourself?' her mother roared.

'They're only house-elves...' she tried, uncertain where her mother was going with this. 'They don't mind, surely...'

She had thought mother would be angry about the mess, not the house-elves. She was, after all, the master of house-elves, wasn't she? She'd do with them as she pleased.

Her mother seemed to deflate at her answer, a tired expression creeping into her stance.

'They are _not _only house-elves, Bellatrix. They are our responsibility, not our playthings.'

She considered Bellatrix for a second before bending down and grabbing her daughters' hands, looking directly at her.

'In exchange for their service we keep them safe, warm and fed. We protect them from the world, and they give us their loyalty. Why should they owe any loyalty to you after the way you've treated them?'

Druella held a squirming Bellatrix still, though her voice was less harsh. Bellatrix stared at a spot next to her feet. This was a question of moral failing, she knew it now. She detected it in her mother's voice, the embarrassment Mother felt at Bellatrix's lack of kindness. Her mother sighed loudly.

'Bellatrix, the house-elves wear the Black family crest not only because they are our property, but because they are in our service and under our protection. They are living beings, and we must treat them with respect and kindness. One can tell a lot about a person from how they treat their servants. I expect you to apologize to the elves and' she pressed on through Bellatrix's groans of protest 'I also expect you will treat them better in the future. If nothing else you'd at least do well to remember that the house-elves are the ones who prepare your food and you'd rather not give them incentive to poison you.'

'They can't poison me, the Ministry would kill them!' Bellatrix protests, outraged.

'And I'm sure that will be a great comfort to you, seeing as you'd be dead before the Ministry could step in.' Druella remarks sharply. 'You are my property, you know. Would you like to be treated the same way wizards treat their elves or would you prefer for me to treat you... not as badly as I could?'

Bellatrix stared at her mother.

'Power, my darling, isn't everything.' Druella marches out, leaving Bellatrix rather speechless.

_..._

_November 1981 Lestrange House, Coventry England_

'Hello. How may I help you this evening, gentlemen?'

'Mr. Lestrange, we are here to interview yourself and your wife-'

'My wife is indisposed at the moment.' he swiftly cuts the Auror off with an air of finality.

'I'm sorry, sir, but I really must insist.'

He sizes them up, before he sighs deeply. 'Come in, then. She's through here.' he leads them to the sitting room where she is flung on a chair sobbing.

Bellatrix cannot stop herself, the distress she feels is as acute as a knife in the gut. The pain from losing her future and her whole world all at once is wretched. She tries to whimper a pathetic greeting, and the Aurors look uncomfortably to Rodolphus.

'What's wrong with her?' one asks bluntly. Rodolphus puffs up indignantly and clears his throat.

'We've just had a family tragedy.'

The Aurors seem to hang to his words. The moment is thick with anticipation for Rodolphus to explain. Everyone in this room, Bellatrix included, knows why they are here.

'You needed to see her, and so you have. Now, let us continue this without her. As you can see she is in no fit state to be interrogated.' He throws a menacing glare at the Aurors when they don't move. 'Come with me or _leave_.' he hisses.

The Aurors shift uncomfortably. They suspect, of course, why this is a house in mourning. Bellatrix has never pretended her sympathies lay anywhere but where they were (if not altogether a supremacist, she's certainly officially a staunch separatist), although she has kept up her facade of being a passive supporter of going about everything the Ministry route. Of course, being somewhat sympathetic to the cause might be enough to land one in Azkaban these days. However, Rodolphus comes to the rescue.

'My wife recently suffered a miscarriage, alright?' he whispers it loudly, angrily shielding her with intensity and ferocity behind every syllable. Of course, the fierce protectiveness shields him, as well. 'I won't have you harassing her! I know why you're here and you are wasting your time. We haven't done anything wrong.'

They finally seem to move on, embarrassed with their display of suspicion now. When they have concluded their interview and leave, Rodolphus has managed to not deny anything nor admit to anything. Bellatrix wants to smile, wants to praise her husband for a job well done, but she cannot bring herself to do anything more than squeeze his hand in gratitude before he again retreats to his office to read.

...

_1978 Lestrange cottage, Kielder forest, England_

'My Lord?'

'Do not pretend you have not heard me, Bellatrix. You know I can always tell when you lie.'

'It is... well, are you certain, my Lord? He seems a bit... young.'

'And so he is, but we must not let that count against him. He is a boy of extraordinary talents, ones we may use for our advantage. And he is devoted to the cause.' Lord Voldemort smiled.

Bellatrix wrinkled her nose at the scrawny boy before her. Severus Snape, was it? He seemed haughty, and even slightly rude as he stood uncertainly behind their master. Greasy hair, black robes, long nose... certainly not a man of charm.

'I will employ him as a spy, Bellatrix. He is also a most accomplished potions maker, which I am certain will benefit us greatly. Test him and teach him whatever he needs.'

'What is this Snape name? Half-blood, are you?' she directed at the boy. He shot her a brief look of disgust before her Lord intervened.

'Bellatrix, darling, do you have anything particularly against half-bloods?' She blushed furiously.

'No, my Lord. Of course not.'

He knew that she knew, of course. He knew it added to her attraction to him. It lent him an air of scandal and debauchery, and with that a whole other dimension of danger which she found very seductive indeed.

'See that it is done, Bella. Do not disappoint me.'

He stalked out, leaving the boy behind.

'What did he mean?' the boy asked, incredulously.

'Never you mind, Snape. Let's see what you know, shall we?' she spat and plunged into his mind without allowing him any more preparation.

_..._

_January 1982 Lestrange House, London England_

He has been gone for two months. Two unbearable months. The world has been filled with the shrieks and howls of greedy mudbloods and filthy blood traitors who wish for nothing more than subservience to muggles. Those who wish to punish the magical for being so. It is disgusting, it is a sort of self-loathing, it is a bloody shame, she chants furiously to herself whenever she is forced to leave the house and witness the atrocity unfolding.

She has been to Gringotts a few times since her Lord's fall into exile. She believed him to still be alive before she visited her vault, but since then it is not belief. It is certainty. Holding the Cup her master has given her for safekeeping was really all she needed to find the truth. It has a heartbeat. She cannot be sure what it means... but he had always spoken of immortality. It seems he got his dearest wish.

Bellatrix has always been a special kind of Death Eater, found most often in the background researching and practicing, training, setting wards to protect them. It had been the work of a lifetime, an unexpectedly demanding magical task – preparing for the second coming of the founders as the Dark Lord often puts it. She is perhaps the most skilled witch in all of Britain. Almost none of the Death Eaters know her. They will not reveal her to the authorities, even if they find her. No one who isn't a Death Eater knows either. No one else has ever seen her in any setting that could implicate her. Now, she is in a unique position to find her Lord and bring him back, she realizes, because she can go about it without much scrutiny. But where to begin?

_..._

_1979, Dartmoor England_

'I think it's brilliant, Master. He's the key to everything you want.'

'Bellatrix, don't be fooled. The boy is an idiot.'

'The boy is brilliant, I tell you. He's an Animagus, he's got every connection he could ever need already cemented and everyone fooled – he'd be an excellent addition.'

'Peter Pettigrew?' he looked at her incredulously. Drawing a deep breath he finally said, as if explaining something obvious to a child, 'He doesn't believe in any of this, Bella. He's only in it for himself.'

'Which's what we will exploit, my Lord. He will constantly try to prove himself – until such a time that we can offer up the wolf in sheep's clothing for the public. Who will suspect me when they can suspect him?'

_..._

_July 1976 _

Bellatrix has certain... skills the Dark Lord appreciates. Most of the time it seems he merely wishes to keep her as a trinket, a lovely example of what he could have had himself. Bellatrix is everything Merope Gaunt should have been, but wasn't. She's Pureblood, beautiful, strong, vibrant and talented. She believes in fighting for what's right, and what's more Bellatrix's idea of what is right sits far better with the Dark Lord than Merope Gaunts ever did.

'I grew up among muggle filth, Bellatrix. I have seen it first hand, the way they are. They are no more than animals, desperate for power and prone to violence.' he confesses one night as they sit quietly beside the fire in her sitting room. Rodolphus has gone to bed, Lucius and Narcissa have left.

'So war is truly necessary then?' she asks, almost absentmindedly.

'War is inevitable.' he smiles decisively, and she implicitly trusts the handsome man she has grown to respect so much. It doesn't frighten her, the war he speaks of.

'Bellatrix,' he starts after a stretch of silence,' you are an extraordinary witch. I believe you would be of the utmost use to me as a Death Eater. Why have you not taken the Mark yet?'

'My Lord, ' she blushes. He knows how long she has waited for him to ask. 'I did not know it was what you wished of me. I thought my place was outside.'

He nods thoughtfully, and stares at the fire.

'I will train you myself. War is always ugly, and you are... precious to me.'

Her heart thumps and her face flushes. 'Thank you, My Lord. Of course I will take the Mark. I will never fail you.'

'Good. I do not have much tolerance for incompetence.' he grins, an expression that always leaves Bellatrix somewhat unsettled. His teeth are brilliant, and his face is wide open, but there isn't any humour in it. Only savage triumph.

_..._

_December 4, 2003 Excerpt from interview by Unspeakable Granger for mrs. Lestranges hearing and deposition, read into the record on March 15 2004_

'Of course, the oppressiveness of Pureblood customs and the difficulty of isolation has made these sorts of movements very popular before. The Ministry never lets the wizarding population centralize enough for us to live comfortably in isolation. We're always outnumbered and hiding. It's not so bad for the muggleborns, really, as they can hide in plain view, and easily slip across the border. They have muggle ways and muggle customs. Purebloods aren't so lucky. It feels like living in a cage, and everyone admits it. The only real difference between wizards politically is how to solve this problem. We all agree it is a problem. The Dark Lord wanted to return overground again, for us to use magic whenever we damn well pleased. He wanted us to experiment with Dark Magic. He wasn't as interested in witches magic, weather-working and elementals and all that, but he certainly was interested in other parts of it. He was obsessed with death, which I admit I found unnerving at first. However, I soon accepted that the Dark Lord needed to survive the revolution at all costs, as he was the one who would build our new world order. My loyalty shifted slowly to him and only him. I had been infatuated with him, but when he took me under his wing and trained me in the Dark arts... well, as it turns out that was His plan all along, but I was flattered. We trained and trained, he taught me so much. Of course, by the time I'd mastered Occlumency, he knew me like the back of his hand. I became indispensable to him. The man who came back from death was not the man I knew back then, however desperately I hoped for it.'

_..._

_June 1976 An unknown location, Britain_

'Tell me, Bellatrix, how do you think one would most efficiently go about bringing down the Ministry of Magic?'

'Well, my Lord, I believe it would depend on the purpose of bringing it down. If one simply wishes to see it crumble that is all well and good, but if one wishes to merely prune away the undesirable parts so that a structure is left to take over and... mould, well that is quite another matter. Transition or revolution, there are obvious benefits to both. There are of course benefits to taking a middle road, as well.'

'So you understand our purpose, then?'

'I think I do, my Lord, but I do not wish to be misinformed simply for fear of admitting ignorance.' She grinned at her Master.

'Ah, Bellatrix. You are as always a delight. Very well, I trust you see that we are achieving our objective splendidly?' a smile cracks his face and as she smiles her most radiant smile back at him he raises a finger at her, 'But a warning: Lord Voldemort no longer has time for mere social calls. I shall require a service from you.'

'Anything my Lord wishes.'

'I have taught you many of our Darkest Arts already, Bellatrix. I wish for you to oversee the work of the others from now on and guide them in any skill where they might be... insufficient. It is of the utmost importance that my Death Eaters have impeccable skill in the areas I need them to, and alas I have no time to be a teacher to all of them. The success of our plan hinges on this.'

Her heart swelled with pride. She was his student, and now he would trust the rest of them to her. She was his _only_ student. She felt acutely – a surge in her chest of sorts – the great honour of it.

'Of course, my Lord. I seek, as always, only to serve you.' she briefly bowed her head in reverence, but caught herself and looked up, directly in his eyes. She felt as if there was a raging fire ignited between them as she let her mental walls fall. He roamed through her mind, seeking out her loyalty, her love, her reverence. She was his, completely, and the thrill of having submitted herself to someone so thoroughly... it burned in her blood. He need never touch her physically, for he had already taken her mind for his own.

'Very well.' he pulled back, and she braced herself a bit in her chair, panting. He always sought the parts of her that longed for him, bringing them out in her so clearly.

'I expect you to be ready soon, Bellatrix. I need you to have every skill if you are to teach every skill, so master them all. I will call on you again before long.'

The recent invasion still hummed in her. Oh, the way he said her name! The thrill of it shot straight through her. _I seek only to serve him_, she reminded herself. What she wanted wasn't important. Only he was. She would be his most faithful servant, someone he could trust to keep an eye and a wand at the ready to enable everyones success.

'Oh, and Bellatrix? This is of course a sensitive issue. You will know, by necessity, every one of my Death Eaters. They need not know you, or if they do, they need to be unable to pass your name on. If you are caught, it will be most... inconvenient for me.'

'Of course, my Lord. No one will know.'

_..._

_December 29 2003 _

'I hate to revisit this, really. I haven't found any memory of the incident yet – did you really do it?'

Hermione was chewing on a quill, trying to keep any sense of unease out of her voice as she took notes. If Bellatrix's original conviction went out the window this process would prove quite a bit more complicated. The outcome, she suspected, would not.

'I was there. I didn't plan it or anything but the process... Everyone else had their wits about them, having already escaped Azkaban. I didn't care about Azkaban. Our loyalty was with our Lord, I felt.'

Bellatrix looked tired, dejected.

'I was such a fool I didn't realize that everyone else had pledged loyalty to a cause, not a master.'

'Well, more's the pity as the cause was never pursued.' Hermione arched an eyebrow at her captor, trying to convey some levity – the pursuit the Death Eaters were after had been doomed from the start.

'That isn't true at all, Granger. You don't understand our cause.'

The healing had really changed Bellatrix's perception of everything she'd fought for surprisingly little, in Hermione's opinion. The views she held were ridiculous and for an intelligent woman like Bellatrix to hold them were almost incomprehensible.

'How did you know Voldemort wasn't dead? You're not... well, you're not guessing. You knew.'

'Ah, well, it's really rather simple. You see, there was the up until recently unknown matter of the Cup that had been placed in my vault. I _knew_ the Dark Lord was alive because the Mark hadn't faded or disappeared entirely, and I had been informed the Cup I had been entrusted with had something to do with my Lords safety, though I did not tell anyone about that. The Dark Lord had instructed me that so long as the Cup was safe I was never to cease searching for Him should anything happen. I visited my vault so that I could be around something of My Lord after his disappearance, and it had a heartbeat. The Cup of Helga Hufflepuff had a heartbeat and just... felt like the Dark Lord to me. I was certain He was alive then. My Lord was never one to divulge information unnecessarily, so if he had a hideout, he wouldn't have told us. Not even me, I realized. All the same, as time passed on it seemed likely that something had gone much more awry than I had thought at first. But he was alive, of that I was sure. My Mark reacted to the presence of the Cup. As for the Longbottoms, that whole mess was started because what we wanted was information on the Horcruxes, however little we realized it at the time.'

...

**A/N: Oh, boy. This one's a doozy - my computer was recently hospitalized but luckily my documents have been saved. I have been unusually busy - as such I hope the structure of this is not completely confusing as it makes sense to me but I've looked at it for long enough that I'm not sure if it's just me or it makes actual sense outside my head? Anyway I apologize for this update being so long overdue and hope at least this chapter makes up for it a little. Have a wonderful day, darling reader :)**


	17. Part 2: Chapter 7

A/N: Sorry, that took forever! I have a very very very full schedule these days, but I will try to keep things as timely as I can! So sorry again about the very long wait.

* * *

**Part 2 Chapter 7**

_February 2 2004, Weasley residence outside Wicklow, Ireland_

'The memories are... diverse. They've cast a different light on the whole thing – and revealed unflattering details about wizarding society, anti-pureblood sentiments and frankly... Well, it would come as no surprise to me if the deposition, should it become public, ended up galvanizing isolationist as well as supremacist supporters. Right before the election, too. There's a lot of pressure on me right now to get this right.'  
Hermione sipped her tea nervously, tapping the toe of her shoe against the wooden beam under the table.

'So you're not sure Bellatrix Lestrange will come out of this looking, well... wrong?' Harry looked upset and a bit baffled. Hermione was at a bit of a loss herself, twitching a hand through her hair in frustration and furrowing her brows.

'What? No, Harry, of course she's wrong. Her views are wildly wrong apart from being absolutely horrible, that's not the issue. It's just... she's thought things through, she's clever, she's suffered. She's a bit more like a martyr than expected. I'm concerned about it.' _She's looking healthier, too, and I don't want to put a tragic beauty spin on this whole martyr mess either _she thought.

'Well, I reckon everyone's got a sob story, haven't they?' Ron leaned back, his feet planted on the ground and his hands reaching toward his back. Still supremely confident it would all work out – Ronald Weasley had gained a lot of perspective in his adult years, but was still unwaveringly certain he'd been on the right side of history every step of they way in his fight against Voldemort. 'You don't get to the top of the Death Eaters without spilling a bit of blood and a bit of your own brains, right?'

'I don't think so, no.' Hermione thought about it. 'But she could be doing this on purpose.'

'Are you mad? That'd be impossible.' Harry scoffed.

'Didn't you say you'd been thorough?' Ron demanded. 'Didn't you say she didn't want to do it?'

'Well, yes. But it's not as if you know what that entails, Ron, to be thorough. Analogies are analogies and all. There could be margins of error of which you remain blissfully unaware – I have tried to represent her as well as to condemn her, it's a tough balance is all.'

She sighed heavily, signalling an end to the conversation as she scratched her scalp in frustration. Conversation as stress-relief didn't really work when you were not able to actually talk freely and the Department of Mysteries was nothing if not thorough in it's tongue-tie curses and Mauna Vows – there were even incidents of Unbreakable Vows being taken in the higher-up ranks. Hermione knew she was lucky she could say what she could as Harry and Ron were Harry and Ron – being their friend had it's privileges. Still, Bellatrix's memories were not the unending parade of horrors she'd sort of hoped they would be – Hermione would have to make deliberate choices about what to include in the deposition. She could make an argument and decide the results through presentation. She hadn't intended for Bellatrix's faith to lay in her hands, but it appeared it had still come to pass – whatever she handed over would surely all be used.

_January 4, 2004_

It was a strange shift that occurred for Hermione when the prisoner moved to her permanent cell. There wasn't anything about Bellatrix that required her constant attention any longer so the time had finally come for privacy to be (at last) re-attained.

Bellatrix seemed disappointed by the arrangement after having experienced it for only a few days. This, Hermione felt most strongly, did not bode well for the rest of Bellatrix's life (and really, the rest of Hermione's life as well seeing as pureblood wizards frequently lived to 150). However, Hermione understood quite well why it was that the woman was having difficulty adjusting. She was staring down a lonely century ahead which likely felt quite daunting. The promise of a visit from Narcissa had still not been upheld – and now it seemed more urgent than ever, as the likelihood that Bellatrix would offer any co-operation seemed to hang on this promise being complied with. Hermione had charmed a sort of baby monitor system in Bellatrix's sitting room, hoping to be able to keep her visits to a minimum by keeping a distant eye out, but the thought the woman was lonely sent errant pangs of sympathy through her. And yet, the almost pleasant routine they'd had going nauseated Hermione the moment she had some distance from it – what had she been thinking? She ached inwardly for the consideration she had shown the – the monster, really. The image of Bellatrix flashed before her eyes often, a nightmare looming quite large in Hermione's mind once again.

_December 17 2003_

'We're almost done here, I think.' Hermione smiled, inordinately pleased with the progress of the process. The madwoman she'd been charged with was making sense, finally, and the preparations for the island were paying off in the form of a blossoming new community. 'In fact I expect we can move you into your house now. No need to stay so close.'

'Finally! Some privacy at last!' Bellatrix exclaimed loudly. 'I thought this day would never come. I am utterly surprised every day you forego doing a thorough physical search of my person the way you're always hovering over me.'

Hermione inexplicably blushed at this accusation, silently cursing herself for doing so. Bellatrix seemed not to notice as she was busily arranging herself into an impossibly petulant pose complete with blowing impatiently at loose strands of hair – the re-energised woman who'd risen through her therapy.

'Well, you'll be happy to know I am moving you into your own house this evening then.'

Bellatrix froze for only a short moment, but it was noticeable. Her eyes were wider than usual and her voice was hitched in surprise when she replied 'Oh good.'

_December 24, 2003 Leaky Cauldron, London England_

The loud screech of 'Hermione! Over here!' followed by a maroon arm waving frantically in a corner greeted her almost immediately as she stepped into the Leaky. The place was filled with absurd Christmas decorations and smelled of spiced cider and that mulled wine scent that drenched the entire season. As she approached the corner table she noted with some cheer that there were full tankards of butterbeer and goblets of oak-matured mead alongside that trusted old friend, the always-welcome firewhiskey.

There was no way around the blunt truth: Hermione absolutely hated Christmas. Ron absolutely hated Christmas, too. So it was natural they greeted each other with an enthusiastic hug before scanning the room with distaste and exclaiming a satisfying 'Ugh' in unison. Behind them a woman's voice giggled lightly and Harry got up and brusquely offered Hermione a perfunctory hug so the closeness allowed him to announce 'God, I hate everything and everyone and their stupid fucking seasonal cheer can stuff it.' quietly in her ear. 'So, how're you?' he continued a bit louder as he pulled back into his seat – placing himself on a chair opposite Hermione, next to the source of the giggling.

'Oh, you know. Busy.' she tried to keep her tone sort of airy, adjusting her voice to allow for some decidedly false bravado. 'I've been worse.' she settled on a bit more solidly as she dumped her folded up scarf, hat and woollen mittens on top of her coat, setting a heating charm on them and shrinking the pile down to a handy size. 'How're you all?' she tried to make it sound casual and not at all accusatory or challenging when she added 'Everything going alright?'. Ron folded his arms and Harry furrowed his brows before responding 'I've been worse.'

'Oh, shove this!' Ron blurted out. 'I fucking hate Christmas! I can't bloody sleep thinking about every cold, miserable thing that's ever happened during it.' Hermione was mildly amused to register his annoyed huff as he leant back in his seat, defiant.  
'My aunt and uncle sent me a bicycle.' Harry said quietly, plodding on more confidently. 'I think they're trying to say 'thank you for not letting us die even though we were horrible guardians' but I could be wrong. They haven't invited me over or anything.'  
'Does it matter? We all have to come to the Burrow or mum'll go mental.' Ron observed.  
'I suppose. But an invitation would be nice, though, you know a lovely 'Please come, we will do all the cooking. You won't have to sleep in the cupboard as we've just refurbished the guest room.' would quite possibly have me considering going, really.' Harry remarked seemingly without humour. Hermione chuckled.  
'What? You'd really consider it?' Lisa Turpin's wide-eyed surprise at that had Harry guffawing enough that she coloured. 'I mean...' she tried carefully, 'they were so horrible to you. I'm not sure I could forgive something like that.'  
'What do you know about it?' Hermione found herself asking, curious. Harry hardly ever talked about this to anyone besides Hermione (the old heart-to-heart not being the social skill in which Ron quite excelled), or so she'd thought.  
'Oh, just what I've seen in the press over the years, you know. They were abusive or something to that effect. It's why he... why he doesn't talk about his early life ever.' Lisa blushed deeper when catching Ron's incredulous expression, adding in a smaller voice 'Of course no one knows anything about it really, it's all speculation.'  
'What?' Ron snorted, his ears colouring slightly. 'Cruel? I'll tell you, I'll tell you how fucking... those bastards were beyond cruel. I had fly to Little Whinging one summer because they were starving him in a bloody cell they'd installed in their house.' Ron wheezed. 'They're complete bastards!'  
Harry looked at Ron fondly before addressing Lisa. 'I wouldn't rule out visiting them, but perhaps not on Christmas. It's stressful enough as is without adding family drama.'  
When Harry looked expectantly her way Hermione felt acutely that she needed to divert attention from her own familial state. 'Enough chatter, let's get the seasonal drinking started already!' she blurted, raising a small glass shaped like an oversized upside down champagne cork high over her head. 'To Ogden's!' as Harry and Ron joined in with their drinks and shouting 'To alcohol!' in unison before they all dipped their head back and downed their drinks.  
Only Lisa Turpin looked a bit confused, so as Hermione raised her second shot (this time a deep green liquor she suspected of being a wizarding variety of absinthe) she shouted instead the more seasonal 'To friendship!' to which her favourite men raised their own for a rousing 'To friendship!' in return. Never mind that her parents didn't want to come up for Christmas (or ever really) – never mind the frightening memories creeping in or the loneliness brought on by being so sad when everyone else was so happy – never mind no Christmas dinner would ever again occur without a fair bit of memorialising those no longer alive to attend. Never mind the reminder she'd spent her most memorable holidays getting almost-murdered by Voldemort rather than with her family anyway.

'Remember that time at St. Mungo's over Christmas?' she started.  
'First or second time?' Ron mumbled.  
'Second. After the war.' Hermione added.  
'Ugh.' Harry grunted decisively, raising another small glass of something amber. 'To permanent injury!'  
'To wounds that never heal!' Hermione added quietly toward Harry, smiling at her friend. 'I am inordinately fond of both of you.' she added, growing a bit red in the cheeks.  
Ron smiled warmly, unflappable. 'We are inordinately fond of you as well, Hermione.'

_December 27,2003_

Bellatrix had a small parchment mounted on a little side-table in her sitting room. When she wrote on it, Hermione could see the writing on her own corresponding piece of parchment, which she carried in her pocket where it would vibrate softly until she read it. This way, Bellatrix could alert Hermione to emergencies. This way, Bellatrix could also persuade Hermione to let Bellatrix visit by way of announcing she had lost 'several heirloom toe rings' which she needed to search for or other such very poor excuses to leave her new abode. She didn't really mind the transparency of her excuses – so long as they worked. She would go mad if she had to spend the rest of her life in the deafening silence of her own solitary company.

Bellatrix had never quite taken Hermione seriously as an adult woman until she saw the liquor collection Hermione had arranged on her sitting room table. It stopped her dead in her tracks, momentarily too distracted to continue on in her actual quest (anything interesting she could sneak back into her own home).  
'What?' the unusually sour tone of her guard demanded.  
'Oh nothing, nothing.' Bellatrix began before deciding to give up the pretence. 'I don't suppose I could bother you for a drink?'  
'Absolutely not.' was the very finite answer. She decided not to press it.

She liked this, though. She never quite knew anymore what the mudblood would say, or how she would say it. She'd become the most interesting thing in Bellatrix's life, loathe as she was to admit it. She spent hours speculating when might be the best time to press for a visit, or what her captor might be doing that took precedent over responding to her requests once she'd sent them. The object of study was merely the only non-static object in her life, of course, but Bellatrix was still enjoying it more than she normally would. Her mind had quietened and discovering curiosity and enthusiasm and interest again had thus far been a very lovely journey. The only human companion she'd be having regular contact with for the rest of her life turning out to also be a bit more complicated that she'd originally thought was just an additional piece of fun to be savoured.  
'Can I stay for a bit while you drink?' she finally asked after catching Hermione looking fairly longingly toward her colourful selection. She's quite surprised, really, when Hermione responds 'Fine, whatever. I can't be bothered either way.' before immediately going to the nearest bottle of Dowdy's Blood-Brewed Dragon Essence. It's not really made of dragon – it's just a stout with a silly name. Even so, Bellatrix is surprised by the choice.

'So, what do you actually want?' Hermione begins, brusquely. They've looked through the house for non-existent toe rings for a short 20 minutes, but evidently it's been longer than the woman had hoped. Bellatrix bites her lip, searching for a response. 'Nothing much. Were you very busy?' she can't quite help the arching of her eyebrow or the teasing tone as she glances toward the drink selection.  
'Yes, I was attempting to drown myself.' is the answer she receives. The deadpan delivery has her giggling in spite of herself. She decides to chance it and gingerly steps over and sits on one of the familiar leather chairs, allowing her hand to run over the arm of it and noting with some displeasure that it is quite cold.

'Perhaps you're bored.' Hermione announces before taking a massive gulp of the stout – it is blood red, tinging her lips darker, making her appearance sickly and vampiric. 'I should really hurry so you can enjoy your Christmas present.'  
'It'll be easy enough to set up.' Bellatrix agrees, trying to hide her unbridled enthusiasm. Hermione stares into the air for a long while.  
'Would you like to borrow a book or something?' she finally asks.  
Bellatrix borrows a little novel by a fellow named Dostoyevski before allowing herself to be guided none too gently back the her quarters – a thrill running through her as she's shoved ahead of Granger down the garden path.

_December 28, 2003_

She waited until lunch the next day before announcing she had finished the novel – and urgently needed a new one. So very urgently – surely Granger does not want Bellatrix to simply keel over and die from boredom, does she?  
After a good long hour of constant messaging a belligerent Granger shows up, swaying slightly and standing with her legs planted widely and drawn to full stature like the captain of a ship shouting commands while sailing through a heavy storm. 'FUCK YOU!' she screams loudly at Bellatrix before slamming the door and stomping away. The door is left unlocked – so she follows, carefully, after thawing from the position where she had frozen when Granger screamed.

When she entered the house it was quiet until she sneaked into the sitting room where Granger was curled up in a chair. She barely moved as the visitor took her own seat.

'Do you like Christmas?' Hermione finally asked.

'No. I mean, it's been so long since I've celebrated I can barely remember it, but I'm not very attached to the whole thing. I don't have anyone to celebrate with any longer.'

Hermione turned her head, which was placed firmly on the armrest, and gazed at Bellatrix for a while. She was plastered, that much was clear. 'You're not my guest, you know. It's not my job to entertain you. I should really just take the parchment away if you can't respect the system.'

'I've never had much respect for systems. That's why I'm here.' she smiled back. Granger sighed, annoyed. 'Nor have I – and yet I've avoided your faith. Stupidity landed you here – stupidity and cruelty.'

'Oh, excuse me to the Golden Girl or Citizen of the Year or whatever.' Bellatrix rolled her eyes. Granger snorted loudly.

'This idea that I'm a model citizen is one I must confess that I chafe at. I'm nothing of the sort. The war at least forced me to face the rather nasty undertones of my personality and the aftermath did not invite much moral jubilation on my part, either. There are an equal measure of people who are very happy with me and ones who are very unhappy. Christmas underscores the point. Everyone is dead, sad, injured or all of the above. There's a fucking vigil being held every year and I am somehow expected to be there, grandstanding about the nobility of loss or whatever. Including the losses I caused.'

'At least something was noble about your losses. There's nothing valuable about sacrifices made for a cause that loses.' Bellatrix tried to sound consoling.  
Sensing the other woman would be unlikely to remember much of this conversation anyway, she chanced at speaking out loud another nagging thought she'd been having. 'I don't mean to suggest I've done nothing wrong either. Personally I resent the idea that I can be, or should be, forgiven. I have done nothing useful with my life. If the means are justified by the end, well, our end failed. Judging by recent writings I've been taunted by in the books I've borrowed from you the end was never what I thought it was regardless of how I went about accomplishing it, so it's all a waste. I am responsible. What I did was pointless and unforgivable. I accept my punishment as relaying the responsibility for my actions onto someone else seems both futile and dishonest. This whole thing about how Azkaban made me insane, the Dark Lord manipulated me, my family's obsession with isolation left me unprepared to deal with the complexity of the actual world and all that nonsense? I am a person. I did this. No payment could ever be enough to repay what I have done when it was all for nothing.'

Hermione stared at her, sitting up then and narrowing her eyes as Bellatrix felt herself colouring under the attention, embarrassed at her own frankness. Finally, Hermione collapsed back on the armrest. 'Winning isn't all it's cracked up to be either.' she said. 'Honestly, I don't feel all that heroic about my war efforts. Sure, there were battles and that whole torture business and such, but mostly it was trying to understand puzzles and overestimating myself and underestimating everyone else. I thought I was so clever and I thought I was taking the moral high ground every time however rarely it was actually the case.'

'Everyone does that when they're young, though, don't they?'

'I suppose maybe that's true, yes. But they don't all go quite as wrong as I did. I was truly awful at times. I maimed an innocent girl and I didn't fix her in spite of seeing the damage every day because... well, I didn't care that she was innocent. I thought it set a good example not to bloody cross me.' she raised her eyebrows at Bellatrix. 'So much for being righteous and good and pure and whatever other bollocks descriptors they've come up with.' She seemingly caught herself and corrected 'That I've come up with and tried my hardest to project.'

'Well, I wouldn't know much about that. No one ever pretended I was the best little witch there ever was.' Bellatrix smiled.

'She killed herself when I received my Order of Merlin first class.'

'You feel you murdered her, is that it?'

'Absolutely, I do. She's not the only one, either. But I do think of her this time of year - Christmas at St. Mungo's makes me think, well, how much time did she spend there because of me? It's why they gave me this job, I think. I've given up on being horrified by people. It seems wrong to try to be superior when I am anything but. Perhaps I've finally learned my lesson and it's too bad about the body count.'

'It isn't the same, Granger. You defended people when you could.'

'I handed Umbridge over to be raped by centaurs.'

Bellatrix knew then that she looked a bit shocked, she couldn't help it. Granger sat up, morose, before plodding on.

'I did it as a plan B after my attempt at having Grawp the giant murder and eat her.' She looked as if she realized it sounded every bit as brutal as it must have been, her eyes wide and glassy. Bellatrix knows she had reasons. - she's read the books. She knows most would find it justified. But it seems that now, years later, Granger herself simply can't.

'Seems you'd make a good Death Eater had we had the sense to recruit you.'

Hermione gave her prisoner a hard stare. 'Maybe. But I don't really think so. I do however think that it is a bit misleading to judge me only for the worst things I have done, and as such I try to refrain from doing so with other people.'

Bellatrix sat for a while, silently, before leaving and going to her own house. She stared out the window – the view was beautiful and completely false, a clever bit of magic meant to make her days a little less morose. She decides to ultimately write an apology to her guard for the intrusion that had turned, well, a bit more personal than she expected Granger would have liked.

'I was testing your tolerance for obstinacy today. For all intents and purposes I am stuck with you for the rest of my life, so it's not as if I do not actively need to know how things work with you. I know it's all horrible for you, but I'm thinking of it as an undignified arranged marriage of sorts. I am sorry – and I will leave you to your life.'

She barely sleeps at all.


End file.
